


shizukana yoi ni, hikario tomoshi (in the quiet of the night, let our candle always burn)

by onekisstotakewithme



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: AU, Ace!Charles Emerson Winchester III, Bi Spy With My Little Eye Something that Begins with Y (Yearning), Canon-Atypical Swearing (let Donna say fuck), Canon-Typical Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Charles's Best Hopper Cosplay, Coming Out, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Healthy Communication (Mostly), Modern Era, Mutual Pining, OTP: Blueberry Pancakes, Pop Culture, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover, canon references, everyone is bi, hawk & beej are secretly ransom & holster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-12-24 15:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 75,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21102059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekisstotakewithme/pseuds/onekisstotakewithme
Summary: "The two of you are gonna have to date."It isn't Hawkeye's best suggestion, but in the end, maybe it's not the worst either.





	1. Friday, 9:15 AM

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_raven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_raven/gifts), [daylight_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daylight_angel/gifts).

> This is for Blue and Day, without whom I wouldn't have nearly the same story ♥  
~  
Title comes from the Queen song "Teo Torriatte (Let Us Cling Together)"

“Okay, so, let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Hawkeye says, ignoring the resounding chorus of snorts as he checks his notebook. “We currently have two ongoing cases, correct?”

“Roger that,” Donna says. “We’ve got the antique collector-”

“I meant the cases of booze in the basement, but continue.” When he sees she’s not impressed, he tries for a grin. “By all means, keep talking.”

“As I was saying, we need to send someone out to verify a painting bought at auction, allegedly old and valuable. Owner wants to sell it at a markup, but can’t do that if it’s a fake.”

“Well he _ can_,” Charles says, “though he may have a harder time of it. The other case is rather an interesting one- a man claims that he owned an authentic Egyptian mummy, some rather obscure pharoah and supposedly valuable, though I haven’t the faintest idea _ why_. Anyway, he now believes it’s been stolen.”

“The mummy strikes,” Donna says with an impressed nod. 

“And what about the uh, uh…” Hawkeye loses his train of thought (and his nerve) and checks his notes again. “The forgery at the Portrait Gallery?”

Donna grins. “Check’s in the mail.” 

“Great. That’s great. I’ll let Potter know, shall I?”

“Am I to take that to mean this meeting is over?” Charles asks.

“Well there is one more thing…” Hawkeye says. “The two of you are gonna have to date.”

He tries to say it casually, hoping they won’t have noticed.

Judging by the way they’re both staring at him, they have.

It’s not shaping up to be his lucky day, it seems.

“What… _exactly _ do you mean by _that_, Pierce?” Charles asks politely, recovering first.

“Was there room for you to not get it? I said-”

“We heard _ what _you said,” Donna cuts in. “We’re just still waiting for you to make sense.”

“Well, ladies and germs, since you asked so nicely, we’ve got a case, and it involves an old friend of ours. The name Sam Flagg ring any bells?”

“That paranoid fucker from the CIA?” Donna asks. “Yeah, we remember him. But unless he’s started selling stolen Ming vases out of the back of a van, it’s not our business what he’s up to.”

“Well, actually-”

“Hear hear,” Charles says, raising an eyebrow. “It is quite literally none of our affair, Pierce. A private agency, with no government affiliation? I say leave it to the professionals, which we-”

“Look,” Hawk cuts him off, impatient. “I _ know _this isn’t our usual wheelhouse, and I’m not asking that we trade specialties, alright? It’s a one-time offer.”

“And why should we care if the man is selling state secrets?” Donna asks. “Frankly, the state has a lot to answer for.”

“C’mon Donna,” BJ says, entering the conversation at last, though his eyes are trained on the ceiling while he spins in his desk chair. “Everyone knows a traitor makes for a good story.”

“A feel-good, star-spangled kind of glory,” Hawk agrees. “Really gets the patriotism flowing.”

Donna sits up, setting down her notes. “Name one patriot in this room, Hawkeye.”

Hawkeye keeps his mouth shut.

“We have the word of a reliable informant that Flagg is cutting a deal today with a buyer,” BJ says patiently.

“Oh, I see,” Donna says. “That’s a good deal you made, Hawk.”

“How so?”

“Easy, Pierce. If we apprehend the scoundrel, they take the credit. If we fail to, _ we _ take the blame.”

“It _ was _a good deal. Though it’s Potter’s genius, not mine.”

“Be that as it may, I refuse to jeopardize Donna’s life-”

“And your own.”

“And my own, thank you, so that you and Hunnicutt can get your rocks off playing Spy vs. Spy!”

“Why _ Charles_,” Hawkeye says, holding a hand to his chest. “There’s no need to be _ vulgar_.”

“Oh go fuck yourself,” Donna says, startling a laugh out of BJ. “Riddle me this, Hawkeye: why dating?”

“Because…” Hawkeye frowns, lost in thought. “Because…”

“Because,” BJ says, swooping in, “Flagg is paranoid, and has a disease you’ve probably heard of: itchy trigger finger. If you go crusading in as professionals, he might open fire.”

“Which would be, in terms of PR and civilian casualties, _ no bueno_,” Hawk adds. “The guy once broke his own arm as part of a routine investigation, he’s not exactly gonna get ‘plays well with others’ on his report card, you know?”

“Let me put it this way: if he sees you just as one more lovesick couple out for a nice afternoon, he won’t be as guarded. A little nauseated, maybe, but the more off guard we catch him, the better.”

“Okay, that’s _ one _ why.”

“Now we just need a, e, i, o and u?” Hawk asks, grinning.

“Why can’t you two do it?” Donna asks, gesturing to him and BJ. “You two would make a perfectly convincing couple. Hell, you already act like you’re married, the way you carry on.”

BJ and Hawk exchange a look, and Hawk grins. “Because you two make such a handsome pair?”

“I’m flattered, Pierce, but not interested in your pathetic attempts at flirting,” Charles says.

“Because… you have the best chemistry?” Hawk tries again, and grins when they avoid each other’s eye.

“While they _ do _have a spark,” BJ says, “that’s not the reason.”

“Then stop beating around the bush and just tell us already!”

“Look, Donna, it’s not that Beej and I don’t want to, but strictly speaking it wouldn’t be too good for men of our reputations-“

“Hawk, we all know about your reputation,” BJ says tiredly, as he stops spinning. “Get on with it.”

“Well-“

“It’s because you two are heterosexual. Or rather,” BJ amends, as Donna opens her mouth in outrage, “you _ appear _heterosexual.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. How is that relevant?”

“Well, one, you’ll attract less attention than two men, and B,” Hawk says, ticking the reasons off on his fingers, “Flagg.”

“Not big on pride, Flagg?”

“Well, no, actually, he sees two men holding hands and it’s suddenly a queer communist conspiracy. As in, saw ‘_Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ _as a how-to guide in outing people. He’s everyone’s favorite Cold War villain of their choice in one paranoid package, big capital-R Red bow on top.”

“We’re not sure he knows the Cold War ended,” BJ adds. “He may have had his brain cryogenically frozen.”

“Like… Walt Disney?” Donna asks. When everyone turns and stares at her, she turns pink. “You know, the… forget it.”

“Anyway,” Hawkeye says, “it’s already got the big ‘yes’ stamped on it in red letters, courtesy of our wonderful government. Potter worked it all out with the _ federales_.”

“Hawk, you hate the government!”

“Yeah, well I hate Flagg more! I can’t stand any guy who’d bring in a prisoner to get him fixed up so he can shoot him once they’ve gotten to the parking lot!”

“So take him out yourself,” Charles says. “No need to involve Donna and I in your petty little grudge match.”

“No. I had a very clear understanding when I got into this business: no guns.”

“Besides,” BJ says, “the government generally tends to frown on rogue agents like Hawk here.”

“They always did call me a lovable rogue,” Hawk interjects with a grin.

“_Generally _, the government frowns upon any story they can’t control.”

“And _ what _ exactly makes you so certain that Donna and I will be able to, in your quaint backwoods phraseology, ‘_pull it off’ _?”

“Well, Charles, as an esteemed veteran of the Hasty Pastry-"

“Hasty _ Pudding_.” It’s muttered through gritted teeth. “Simpleton.”

“Whatever. You’ve spent enough years telling me about your acting skills, now it’s time to put your pesos where you put your hasty pudding.”

Donna snorts, but Charles frowns. “Pierce, I can’t-“

“And why not? I mean, I know she’s a little rough around the edges-“

“Fuck _ you_, Hawkeye.”

“But hey, she’s sharp as a tack, and funny as hell, not to mention a total catch.”

“Hawkeye,” Donna says patiently. “Don’t put up a billboard, I’m not looking for a husband. I’ll do it.”

“You’ll _ what_?” Charles asks, turning to her in horror.

“I’ll do it.” She shrugs.

“But- I-"

“How reliable is your source?” Donna asks BJ, ignoring Charles’s shock.

“Reliable.”

“If it’s that sniveling worm from the _ Post _,” Charles starts, having regained the power of speech.

“It is _ not _Frank Burns,” Hawkeye says, grinning. “Good ol’ Ferret Face wouldn’t know an international conspiracy if it danced naked in front of him wearing a redacted dossier.”

“It’s Margaret Houlihan.”

Donna blinks. “Margaret Houlihan? As in Lieutenant Colonel Margaret Houlihan?”

“One and the same,” BJ says. “You know her?”

“By reputation only. How in hell did you get Lieutenant Colonel Fucking Houlihan on our side?”

“Watch your mouth, it offends Charles’s sensibilities.”

“Oh fuck you,” she said dismissively. “How do you know her?”

“We’re… old friends. Intimates, if you will,” Hawk says with a wink.

“Don’t be modest on _ our _account, Pierce, I’ve heard enough stomach-curdling descriptions of your conquests by now to consider myself immune.”

“Well there was that time with the whip-“ Hawk starts gleefully.

“Stop,” BJ cuts him off. “Focus. The point isn’t that Hawk and her have fucked, because Hawkeye has fucked everyone-”

“Hey!”

“The _ point _is that she knows all the scuttlebutt.”

“Especially who’s fucking who at the Pentagon,” Donna adds. “Did she get a piece of Flagg too?”

“No, regrettably she did _ not _ get the part of Betsy Ross in the school play. _ But _she knows of Flagg, and she’s the one who tipped Potter off about-”

“So she’s reliable.”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“It’s hard to tell sometimes,” BJ tells him, grinning. “You tend to ramble on.”

“Shut up.” Hawk shoves his chair away.

“Anyway, before you go on stage, you’ve got to do something… about how you look.”

“Well you think I just slapped this on this morning?” Donna asks, pointing to her face.

“And what about you?” Hawkeye asks, pointing at Charles with his pen. “How are you with accents?”

“Accents? Me?”

“No, Charles, Mickey Mouse.” Hawkeye rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you.”

“What’s wrong with the way Chuck talks?” Donna asks, suddenly defensive.

“It’s too distinct. How many people talk like him anymore?”

“The entire population of Boston?” Charles suggests.

“Maybe the population of _ your _Boston, Charles, but not normal, regular-people Boston.”

“All right, _ all right. _I suppose I could muster a passable accent if forced to… Scottish, perhaps?”

“Oh?” Donna asks, amused. “Are we going to look at tapestries, Dr. Jones?”

They share a quick smile, and Hawk rolls his eyes. “Scottish, English, whatever. I don’t care. Do a Russian accent if you want, it’s supposedly a free country.”

“Maybe… not Russian. Cold War villain, remember?”

“Might be funny-“

“Hawkeye. If you plan to let Chuck get shot just so you can get your jollies, I will fucking walk, and I’ll take Charles with me.”

Charles looks at her. “… You will?”

“Yes.”

“I just don’t want a repeat of last time,” Hawkeye says.

He grins as Donna blushes pink, but she doesn’t break eye contact.

**[Last time]**

_ “Okay,” Hawk says, “patching into the security cameras in three… two… one, action!” _

_ “A Hawk’s eye view if you will,” BJ jokes, as Hawk points to the monitor, grinning as Hawk gives him a derisive ‘did you really just say that’ look. _

_ “I won’t.” _

_ BJ squints at the screen, still grinning. “I see bad guys one and two.” _

_ “Donna?” Hawk says. “You seeing those two?” _

_ "Abbott and Costello? Yeah," she murmurs. "I'm seeing them." _

_ “Don’t engage,” BJ says. “They may not be there for you.” _

_ “Of course they are, darling, don’t be naive.” _

_ “Any brilliant ideas?” _

_ She looks up at the closest security camera and gives them what Hawk thinks is a wink. She’s still dressed like she’s on her way to a night at the opera, pearls glittering in the streetlights on the grainy footage. _

_ Instead of turning away, she just keeps walking straight towards the two idiots hanging around the corner. _

_ “Is she actually-” BJ starts, and Hawk holds up a hand. _

_ “Shh, this is the good part.” _

_ “Sorry.” _

_ Hawkeye leans in closer, watching her stroll elegantly past the two minions. One of them says something to her, as the other grabs her wrist. _

_ “Game, set…” _

_ And then there’s the flash of metal in the streetlights as Donna pulls out a katana, razor-sharp and lethal. It’s joined within seconds by its fellow, and Donna advances on the two men unfortunate enough to cross her. _

_ “Match,” Hawk says, satisfied, sitting back in his chair. _

_ Donna slashes in the direction of one of the men, but he dodges it. The other tries to grab her and gets the hilt of her katana smashed into his face for his troubles. _

_ “You know,” Hawk says, watching her, deep in thought. “We’re missing something here.” _

_ “No kidding,” Beej agrees. “Like who the hell these guys are working for. That idiot with the stolen Ming vase, maybe-” _

_ “No, not that, not that… Aha! Got it!” Hawk starts rapidly typing away at his keyboard. “Gotta set the scene. After all, what’s an action movie without a killer soundtrack?” _

_ He grins, as “Killer Queen” starts blasting out of the van speakers as Donna elegantly hacks and slashes at the two assailants. _

_ “Never underestimate the power of a good song,” he says to BJ, who’s laughing too hard to answer. _

**[Present Day]**

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous Hawkeye, those two idiots would have attacked me no matter what accent I used. Those fools were determined. Besides, I didn’t _ kill _anyone.”

“You almost caused an international incident,” Hawkeye says. “Again.”

“They had it coming, attacking a poor helpless woman like that.”

“You? Helpless? Hardly.”

“Well _ they _ didn’t know that. For all they knew, I _ was _helpless.”

“I have never met a woman _ less _so than you,” Charles says softly, touching her shoulder. “Including my sister, which is truly saying something.”

“Th- thank you, Chuck,” Donna stammers. “Um. You’re not helpless either.”

“Maybe not. But I doubt I would have dispatched with those scoundrels with quite as much elegance as you did.

“Thanks, Chuck.” She’s definitely pink by this point. “And for someone who’s not a spy, it felt quite 007 of me.”

“Perhaps I should put your name in for the next Bond then?” he suggests, amused.

“Oh I don’t know,” Donna’s flustered.

“Look, you crazy kids, I know you’re the stars of our show, but that doesn’t mean you have to get all ‘backseat at the drive-in’ on us, we’re not even past the previews yet,” Hawk jokes and they jump apart.

“C’mon, we have to take you down to hair, makeup and costumes,” BJ adds. “I already called Klinger.”

“You know, Hunnicutt, most people borrow a cup of sugar from their neighbours, _ not _the entire spring collection.”

“He said he’d be honored to take up the challenge,” BJ says with a shrug. “Besides, he already closed the shop for the day to help out.”

“And if I have reservations-“

“We don’t take them,” Hawk advises. “Only walk-ins. And now I leave you in Maxwell Q’s capable hands.”

“Oh, _ spare _ me from that Lebanese lout,” Charles groans. “If you entrust him with our wardrobe, I will doubtless end up in a mink coat.”

“It’s too hot for furs,” Hawkeye points out.

“Besides,” Donna says, looping her arm through Charles’s. “I’ve always seen you as more of a velvet guy.”

“Donna, I say this with all due respect, but you are not helping.”

“I don’t have to help, I just have to be funny.” She stands on her toes and kisses him on the cheek.

“Well,” he says, turning red. “You certainly are, at that.”

“C’mon lovebirds, Max won’t wait all day,” BJ says from the doorway, and they break apart.

“And hey, if that’s the show you can put on in private…”

“I’d advise you not to finish that sentence,” Charles threatens.

Hawkeye just rolls his eyes as they leave. “Well, I guess every show has its divas.”


	2. Friday, 9:35 AM

Max Klinger has the requisite tape measure slung around his neck, a pincushion on his wrist, and looks more like he belongs backstage on Broadway (where he did indeed spend the better part of the previous decade) than a dingy office building in DC.

He’s clucking as he circles the two of them, hands on his hips, shaking his head in disbelief. “Why can’t anyone ever give me a heads-up about this stuff? Genius can’t happen overnight, ya know!”

“Nowhere have I seen better proof of that than _ you_, Klinger.”

“We appreciate the help,” Donna says, elbowing Charles. “Especially on such short notice.”

“Er. Yes. That.”

“Aw, it’s okay. I didn’t have any customers this morning anyway.” Klinger grins as he starts searching through the racks of clothing, disappearing from view. A few seconds later, his voice floats out from the recesses of the room, “I know just the thing for both of you- chic but practical!”

“Max, it’s just undercover work,” Donna calls back, fondly exasperated.

An exaggerated gasp follows this remark, and Klinger reappears, garment bags in his arms, which he drops on the table in front of them. “_ Just _ undercover work? Was the Coliseum _ just _ a building? Was Toledo _ just _ a city? Was Packo’s _ just _a restaurant? Whatever happened to ‘all the world’s a stage’?”

“You know Shakespeare?” Charles asks before he can stop himself, so distracted that he forgets to remark on Toledo.

“I _ can _ read, _ sir_,” Klinger’s voice is ice. “And I may not be the sharpest needle in the sewing kit, but even I know Shakespeare didn’t write for fancy guys like _ you_.”

“Then pray tell who _ did _he write for?”

“Everyone else,” Klinger says, and disappears back into the racks.

“Nice going, Chuck.”

There’s a few awkward moments of silence, while Donna examines a gold sequined dress hanging on a nearby rack, and Charles does his best not to stare.

He finally clears his throat. “I’m sorry they dragged you into this.”

She looks up. “What?”

“This… inane masquerade. I’m sorry they felt the need to involve you.”

“I said I’d do it,” she says. “I hate walking away from a fight.”

“Even if it’s not yours to fight?” he asks quietly.

A smile flashes across her face. “Especially then.”

“Still.”

“Still,” she mimics him. “Hawkeye had a point, Chuck.”

“Yes, it’s on top of his head. That isn’t my concern.”

“Then what is? I can think of worse things to do on my weekend off than date you.”

“That’s true, and I’d much rather be with you than Pierce…” He realizes what he’s said a second too late. “Er-“

“I’d much rather you date me than Hawkeye too,” she says, and pats his arm with a wink.

“You two are lucky I’m used to rush jobs,” Klinger says as he returns, setting down a couple of shoeboxes, before seeing them. “I’m… not interrupting, am I?”

Donna belatedly seems to realize her hand is still on Charles’s arm, and steps back, turning pink.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Charles tells him.

“Because hey, I’m not gonna judge if it’s for a job, that’s one thing, but if there’s some kinda on the job hanky panky, it’s my job as a good citizen to report you…”

“You’d like that,” Charles accuses.

“Hey, my back itches like every other guy’s… and money talks, sir. But I won’t.”

“That is _ blackmail_, you petty extortionist-“

“I believe that is what you rich people call a _ gratuity_,” Max says smugly.

“Here,” Donna says, stepping forward and sliding a fifty dollar bill into Klinger’s front pocket. “I saw a great pair of yellow heels at David’s yesterday… _ just _your color. And I checked, they have your size.”

“Donna, you can’t be serious-“

“Wedges or stilettos?” Klinger cuts him off.

“Stilettos.”

“Deal.” A smile blossoms. “I know when to fold ‘em. I may be an idiot, but I’m no dummy.”

Donna laughs. “Perfect.”

Klinger looks through the clothes he’s brought out, occasionally glancing up at Charles or Donna and shaking his head, before passing over two garment bags, plus a shoebox for each of them. “Here. These should do the trick.”

Charles unzips his, grimacing at the garish Hawaiian shirt within. “Klinger, you cannot be serious. You expect _me _to wear _this…_ this tropical fever dream?”

“You _ dare _ criticize an _ artiste _?” Klinger asks, annoyed. “When I have scrimped, saved and scrounged every piece of this wardrobe from the four corners of Toledo? Fought the crowds at the end of the month sales at Goldstein’s on the Ginza? Worked my fingers to the bone doing alterations and repairs for the masses?”

“It’s a… a lovely shirt,” Donna tries to reassure Charles, but starts giggling as she continues. “… Magnum.”

“You’re no help,” he tells her as she continues laughing.

“Forget her,” Klinger says. “Go get dressed.”

“What about Donna?”

“Well she needs to take a load off, if you catch my drift.”

“Oh, _ Max_-“

“Uh-uh, Donna. Strip.”

Charles blinks. “Klinger, surely you’re not suggesting…”

Donna rolls her eyes, unbuckling the holster from around her waist and setting it down on the table, leaving Charles struggling for words mid-sentence. And then, she reaches around and pulls a gun – what looks to be an antique Derringer – from the back waistband of her pants. “There.”

“Nope. Your other hip.”

“Max-“

“Donna.”

Charles watches in stunned amazement as Donna pulls out a folded penknife, and tosses it on the growing pile of confiscated weapons, a long-suffering expression on her face. “Are we done yet, or are you going to search my brassiere for a shiv?”

“Do you have a shiv in your brassiere?” Klinger asks politely.

“No.”

“Then we’re done here.” He grabs her wrist as she starts to walk away. “_After _ you take off the knife you’ve got strapped to your ankle.”

“How’d you know about that one?” she asks, annoyed.

“I’m from Toledo. Every lady I know wears a knife right along with her garters.”

“Max, c’mon-“

“You know how Hawkeye feels about guns!”

“This _ isn’t _a gun! And besides, you don’t even report to Hawkeye!”

“It’s still a weapon! And since I’m on the payroll for this, I’m not about to go messing around with the chain of command! When the king speaks, I listen.”

“Yes, you make a lovely peasant,” Donna says, unstrapping the knife from her ankle, and handing it over. “There. Honest to God, Max, you’re worse than the TSA.”

“Ha! Don’t talk to _ me _ about the TSA, Donna, _ I’m _a guy in a dress.”

Charles finally scrapes together coherent words. “Donna, why and _ how _is it that you have an entire armory concealed on your person?”

“Why, Chuck?” she asks, grinning. “Jealous?”

He doesn’t know what word he’s looking for, but jealousy isn’t it.

“I’ll want those back, you know,” Donna tells Klinger.

He grins. “I’ll be sure and make up an IOU.”

“You don’t want my hair clip before I go?”

“Nah,” Klinger says. “Weapons are one thing, but I’d never confiscate a lady’s accessories.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, grinning. “But there’s a concealed blade in it doused in some pretty _ potent _poison.”

Klinger’s mouth drops open, and Charles (even in his own bemusement) can’t help laughing, as Donna pulls the hair clip from her curls and sets it down on the table.

“Where should we change?” Donna asks.

“I’ve got a few empty rows you can use,” Klinger suggests. “If you’re not too modest?”

“Working for Hawkeye Pierce?” Donna asks in return, grinning. “God forbid.”

She picks her outfit back up and walks away, whistling to herself, leaving Charles to stare at the pile of weapons on the table. He leans forward and runs a finger over the gold edges of the hair clip, still warm from her hair. It’s shaped like a cherry blossom and deceptively innocent-looking, given what he knows about it.

“I know, right?” Max says smugly, seeing the look on Charles’s face. “She’s really something.”

“Indeed,” Charles says, chancing a glance in the direction of Donna. “… she really is.”

“Now, I _ know _I said you can’t rush genius,” Klinger says, giving Charles a little shove, “but we’re on the clock, and Hawk wants you dressed as soon as possible.”

“Now _ there’s _ a change,” Charles mutters, as he gathers his own clothes and goes down the adjacent aisle to Donna’s. “Hawkeye Pierce wanting someone to _ get _dressed.”

He starts undressing once he’s out of Max’s sight, very much conscious that either of them could walk in on him. Despite that, he still finds himself oddly happy, and whistles as he gets dressed, an old Ella Fitzgerald song that’s been stuck in his head all morning.

“Chuck?” Donna’s voice is very close, and halfway undressed as he is, he trips in his surprise and nearly faceplants trying to get his pants on. He tries to balance himself on the clothing rack and knocks down a few dresses in the process, cursing in Latin as he grabs the first piece of clothing he can find and wraps it around himself.

And when he looks up, he can see Donna’s eyes above the rack, dark brown and alight with laughter. “I love that outfit, Chuck. Red is really your color.”

He looks down, only to bite back another curse, because he’s wrapped himself in a red kimono. “… k’you.”

“Welcome.” But the laughter slowly fades, her brow creased with worry. “I don’t know about you, Chuck, but I’m a little worried.”

“About what?” he asks.

“This stupid dress,” she says. “I can’t fit a vest under here- even the thinnest would be too bulky. Hawkeye is gonna get me shot.”

“I’m sure it’s merely an oversight,” Charles tries to assure her. “Pierce may be an obnoxious fool, but even he knows better than to send us into the field without any kind of protection.”

“But-“

“Donna,” he cuts her off gently, and the way her eyes crinkle at the corner suggests she’s smiling. “Forget Pierce. Do you trust _ me _?”

“Of course.”

He reaches his hand through the rack of clothing, and finds her, grabbing her hand (and he realizes, with a jolt of electricity down his spine, that this is the first time they’ve held hands). “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“_But _-"

“I promise,” he cuts her off, and squeezes her hand, the two of them linked among the silk and velvet of old costumes, as their eyes meet. “I will protect you. With my life, if it comes to that.”

“I’d hold you to that, but I think I like you better alive.” Her smile returns. “But thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Hey!” Klinger calls, startling both of them apart. “Less talking, more changing! We’re in the traitor catching business, not the goldbrick business!”

“Hold your camels!” Donna yells back.

“How dare he eavesdrop on us, that meddling little Bedouin,” Charles grumbles.

Donna laughs at this. “And who uses the word _ goldbrick _anymore, anyway?”

Charles finishes getting dressed in record time, and as his own revenge on Klinger, leaves the pile of clothes he knocked over on the floor where they’d fallen.

When he emerges, he thinks he sees Klinger’s lips twitch, and he doesn’t need a mirror to know why. “Klinger, I look ridiculous.”

“Well…” Klinger shrugs, grinning. “Not every outfit is gonna stop traffic.”

“I assure you, it _ will_,” Charles says, finally turning and looking himself over in the mirror. “Just perhaps not in the way you’d intended. How is this supposed to be at all inconspicuous?”

“Charles, _ this _is not a mashed potato,” Klinger says, pointing to his head. “Yeah, your shirt’s louder than an AC/DC concert, but that’s kinda the point, isn’t it? You’ll fit right in with all the other dumb tourists in loud shirts. Am I a genius or what?”

“I shall leave that opinion up to the jury,” Charles mutters, frowning at his lopsided collar.

“Are you two almost ready?” Hawkeye asks, bounding in like an excitable puppy. “Beej is just finishing up with your wires – though it’s making him cross – and I wanna get this show on the road, so chop chop!”

“You’re wiring us?” Charles groans. “Is there no end to this indignity?”

“Nope!” Hawk is cheerful as he kisses Klinger on the cheek. “Max, you’ve outdone yourself. Charles here doesn’t look a thing like a spy. He doesn’t look like much of anything, really.”

“And did you see my piece of resistance?” Klinger asks, grinning. “Check out the shoes- and trust me, these babies weren’t cheap.”

“They looked as though you picked them out of a private school dumpster,” Charles grumbles, turning them from side to side.

“Makes sense,” Hawkeye says. “That’s where we found _ you… _Magnum.”

“Am I to be spared _ nothing _?” Charles asks with a sigh.

“Is that Hawkeye I hear?” Donna calls from down her aisle.

“Live and in stereo!”

“What’s with all this bullshit about Charles and I not wearing vests?”

“Who said you weren’t?”

“Are we?”

“Well- uh. No. But not by choice. I mean hey, if it was my choice, I’d have you two bubble-wrapped. Hell, I’d _ monogram _your body armor for you!”

“So what’s stopping you?”

“Flagg,” Hawkeye says promptly. “He may be crazy, but if he sees two civvies wearing vests? He’ll know something’s up, which would end up very SNAFU-y for you, in army talk.”

“Hawkeye, trust me when I say that if something happens to Chuck, things will be pretty damn SNAFU-y for _ you _ , in Donna talk. _ Capische _?”

“Since when do you use army talk anyway?” Klinger asks.

“Since around the time Donna started learning Italian,” Hawkeye says, and turns to Charles. “Hey Charles, have you ever noticed how much sexier a woman gets when she’s threatening you?”

“No.”

Hawkeye pouts. “You’re no fun.”

“Hawkeye, can I come out now?”

“I want to see my handiwork!” Klinger calls back. “C’mon out.”

There’s the sound of heels clicking on the floor, and Charles holds his breath in anticipation, oddly eager for her to walk down the aisle towards them.

Towards _ him_.

And then she rounds the corner of the rack, her hair spilling from its messy knot, and it may be insulting to think it, but Donna is _ adorable _ in her red sundress.

She must notice that he’s staring, because she makes a face, her nose wrinkling in derision as she laughs. Until, despite having never stumbled on heels before, she loses her balance under his gaze, arms windmilling frantically.

Charles darts forward just in time.

She steadies herself against his forearms, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation, and it should look silly, but it’s just endearing. Until she looks up, and grins. “Chuck… what are you wearing?”

“… Clothes?”

“I mean on your feet.”

“Well they’re-“ He takes a closer look at the shoes, not understanding what’s so amusing. “What? Klinger, what are these abominable shoes you’ve got me in?”

“They’re called Converse,” Hawkeye cuts in. “And you call yourself a man of the world.”

Donna cracks up, and Charles turns to look at her, bewildered as she continues laughing, whooping hard enough that she’s almost bent in half. It goes on and on, and every time she gasps for breath, she catches sight of him and starts laughing all over again. Seeing the look on his face sends her into another bout of giggles.

“I really don’t understand what’s so amusing,” Charles says, confused, starting to feel more than a little embarrassed.

Donna emerges at last from her laughing fit, and though she’s collected herself, she’s still pink-cheeked, grinning and lovely. “Chuck, Converse shoes are colloquially referred to as-“ Her lips twitch again, “as Chucks.”

“Oh,” Charles says, stupidly relieved that she isn’t laughing at how ridiculous he looks. “I- I see.”

She leans in, confidentially. “Wanna swap?”

He looks at the heels she’s wearing and at the purple shoes on his own feet. “Deal.”

“Well, come along, children,” Hawkeye says, gesturing to the door. “Whaddaya think, Max? Think they pass muster?”

“It’s tasteful,” Klinger says, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Without being gaudy.”

“You’re one in a million, Klinger,” Hawkeye says, and kisses him on the cheek again. “Take two bras from petty cash.”

“Just include an early retirement package in my next pay period, and we’ll call it.”

“Deal.”

“Hawkeye,” Donna says sweetly, and Hawk immediately assumes a wary, long-suffering look that suggests he knows he’s in trouble.

“What is it, Donna?”

“You’re, to be frank-“

“Frank Burns?” Hawkeye asks with a grin.

“To be _ blunt_,” she corrects, “you’re a fucking idiot if you think this will work.”

Charles stares at her, open-mouthed in shock, but Hawkeye merely raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Is that your final answer?”

“Yeah. You can’t just send Charles and I out into the field and expect us to be a natural couple!”

“… Why not?”

“We may be good actors, but we can’t pull together a convincing cover story with no practice and having never played lovers before?”

Hawkeye looks as though he wants very much to make an off-color remark, but refrains. “I guess I didn’t think of that.”

“No, you didn’t, you were too busy stroking your own ego. We need to practice.”

“P-Practice?” Charles asks, trying to hide his panic.

“Yes, Chuck, _ practice_.”

“As in _ kissing _?” Charles asks, his voice going up an octave, and his eyes feel as though they’re bulging out of his head.

“Why grandmother, what big _ eyes _ you have!” Hawk crows, grinning. “You could put tea cups in those saucers!”

“No, no,” Donna says, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder that he flinches away from. “Just… getting comfortable with each other. We can just talk.”

“Talk?” he asks, eyeing her warily.

“Yes,” she says. “Talk.”

“You know, Chuck, open your mouth, sounds come out?” Hawk asks.

“Right, yes,” Charles tries to smile. “Talk.”

“I hate to admit it, but Donna’s right,” Hawkeye says, looking between them. “_Nobody _ watching you is gonna believe you two would go for each other.”

“I resent that implication,” Charles mutters.

“Can I get that in writing?” Donna asks. “That I was right, I mean. The rest is bullshit.”

“No. You want to practice? Fine. BJ’s bringing the van around, meet me outside in five.”

Hawkeye is already bounding up the steep staircase, two steps at a time, leaving Donna and Charles still standing there.

Max tactfully disappears into the racks, leaving them entirely alone.

“I’m sorry,” Donna says quietly after a second. “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you back there, and if I did-“

“No!” he protests, suddenly desperate to reassure her. “No, I’m… I’m embarrassed by my own conduct, not as a result of any shortcomings on your part.”

“We don’t have all day!” Hawk calls down the stairs.

“Donna-“

“I guess we should go,” she says softly, but smiles up at him as she reaches out and straightens his shirt collar. “You’re gonna be great, Chuck.”

“I- th- thank you.” He clears her throat, grabbing her wrist as she starts walking away. “Donna?”

“Yes?”

“I believe this belongs to you,” he says, pressing his stolen goods into her hand.

“Oh Chuck,” she says, eyes aglow. “How did you-“

“Shh.” He holds a finger to his lips. “Shall we?”

The smile she’s giving him makes the treasures of the cave of wonders look positively dim by comparison, her hair clip clutched in her hand.

Charles smiles to himself as they make their way up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to Gi! (hope it's not too late eh) ♥


	3. Friday, 10:07 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of practice goes a long way...

“All right,” Hawkeye says as they pull up to the curb, “Time to see how this baby really flies. Take a little stroll along the mall, pretend like you’re crazy for each other. Easy, right?”

“Almost as much as you,” BJ says, and Hawk smacks his shoulder. “And you two can just pretend we’re not here, okay?”

“How?” Donna asks, adjusting her wire. “You’ve got us wired like Christmas trees.”

“Yule be great,” Hawkeye says, clapping her on the shoulder.

“Pierce,” Charles says, clearly trying to plead his case again, “_ you _may find it titillating to have an audience, but I do not wish to practice in front of you… budding voyeurs.”

“Budding?” Hawk repeats. “I’m a _ blossoming _voyeur. A blooming voyeur, if you want to get all Eliza Doolittle about it.”

“You’re insufferable,” Charles tells him.

“Yeah, yeah. And _ you’re _ a pompous windbag,” BJ says as he shoves the door of the van open. “Tell it to the marines, Henry Higgins.”

“Just you wait,” Charles grumbles back.

“Are you just going to be listening to us?” Donna asks, “Or are you going to be full voyeurs?”

“Oh, that brooch you’re wearing is a camera. I designed it myself,” BJ says proudly. “Live feed and everything.”

"Isn't he brilliant?" Hawkeye asks, nudging Beej, who grins and nudges him back.

“Just know,” Donna threatens, “if this ends up on Pornhub, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Hawk flutters his eyelashes at her. “Promise?”

“I think we’ll be going now,” Charles says, before helping Donna onto the pavement.

“Break a leg!” Hawkeye calls out after them.

Donna glowers at them as they walk away. “We will. I just won’t guarantee whose.”

Hawkeye ignores her, closing the door before sitting back in his chair. “I think that went pretty well, don’t you?”

“Sure, aside from the fact that you’re no longer the most popular girl in school.”

Hawk shrugs. “Strike me for Miss Congeniality. The pin broadcasting yet?”

“Has been since they left,” BJ says. “Shall we retire to the den and watch TV?”

“Just like old times,” Hawk says with a grin. “Only I was more of a cartoons and cereal kid and this is pure soap opera.”

“I hear you.”

Hawk walks over and leans on BJ’s shoulder. “You think these two crazy kids will ever get their act together?”

“Nah, they’re too smart for that. And too dumb.” BJ laughs. “Though stranger things have happened. Nice job pairing them up.”

“What can I say, even my humble mind sometimes presents a stroke of genius.”

“Or just a stroke,” BJ comments. “Since even _ you _can’t completely mastermind them into a relationship, oh puppet master.”

“Oh yeah?” Hawk asks. “You think they’re smart enough to do it themselves? Ha!”

“Hawk, sometimes you’ve got an ego as big as all outdoors,” BJ says. “They’ll get together themselves. Fifty bucks says by the end of the case.”

“You’re on,” Hawk agrees, shaking BJ’s hand. “You're also stupid, and fifty bucks poorer.”

“Wait and see,” BJ says, turning up the volume.

“We got anything to eat in this machine?” Hawk asks. “Or is that to remain a mystery?”

“Sorry, Scoob. I’ve just got the best of Queen.”

“I can’t _ eat _the best of Queen. Don’t we stash any snacks on this bus?”

“I’ve got goldfish.”

“I thought this wasn’t a pet-friendly resort.”

“The crackers, stupid,” BJ says, rolling his eyes, pulling the bag of crackers from his backpack. “Goldfish crackers. You serve them at parties?”

“All right, good enough.” Hawkeye takes the bag and rips it open.

_ “Do you think ve vill catch ze traitor _?” Donna’s voice comes through loud and clear in a cartoony, cheesy Russian accent, and BJ groans.

“I’m gonna kill her.”

_ “Traitor?” _ Charles asks, in an accent that is thicker. _ “Indeed ve vill catch traitor. But then moose and squirrel, yes?” _

_ “Yes Boris, then moose and squirrel.” _

_ “Is perfect!” _ Charles says, before doing a perfect imitation of a mad Russian scientist’s laugh.

“Hey, Charles, why the fuck are you talking like Jumba Jookiba?” Hawk asks, grabbing the microphone.

_ “Is obviously Boris and Natasha. Who is this Jumba?” _ Charles demands. _ “He sounds handsome, yes?” _

“Boris and Natasha?” Hawk asks again, and shakes his head. “That’s not even funny.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t come up with it yourself,” BJ retorts. “Bullwinkle.”

“Wait a sec,” Hawk says, pushing the microphone away. “Why am I Bullwinkle?”

“‘Cause you’re tall and dumb,” BJ says, grabbing it. “Look, Boris and Natasha, Jumba and Pleakley, whatever- you two actually have to touch each other or nobody’s gonna buy that you’re a couple. And can the mad scientist crap, would you?”

_ “I prefer evil genius,” _ Charles mutters. _ “Ve vill touch, but can ve cease vith foolish accents now?” _

“Not yet.”

“Well _ alright_,” Charles says, his voice suddenly flat and unrecognizable, dropping not only the goofy Russian accent, but losing his own in the process. “If you insist. What say you, Natasha, hand-holding?”

Hawkeye and BJ exchange a look of utter confusion. Hawk covers the microphone. “What the fuck is _ that _?”

BJ shrugs.

“Donna?” Charles asks. “Are you alright?”

“I um-” Donna says, “Your voice.”

“Is there something the matter with it?” Charles asks innocently.

“No, no, I’m just trying to place your accent,” Donna says, but she sounds amused. “You’ve got quite a few talents, don’t you, Chuck?”

“This, my dear, is _ acting_. Pierce, if you’re still listening, _ do _take notes.”

“Ah yes,” Hawkeye says, watching the screen. “Beej, is it too late to hate him?”

BJ is busy accessing the security camera, waves a hand dismissively. “A couple of years too late, yeah.”

“And to think women have told me I’m fast.”

“Look you two, as cute as the acting lessons are, could you please just hold hands already?”

“And Charles, I don’t like to beg,” Hawkeye says, ignoring a snort from BJ and an equally derisive one from Donna, “but please, _ please_, never use that voice again.”

“Very well,” Charles says, his own voice restored. “Donna, if you would be so kind?”

“Hand-holding? Without gloves?” Donna asks, sounding as relieved as they feel. “You don’t think we ought to use protection?”

Hawk chokes on a handful of goldfish crackers at this, necessitating a few thumps on the back from BJ, and almost missing what Charles says next.

“I’m not afraid of whatever you’ve got anyway,” Charles says to Donna, softly. “Er, that is to say-”

“Can you stop stammering and _ please _get on with it already?” Hawk demands, eyes watering, after BJ has made sure he isn’t in danger of choking to death. “The suspense is killing us. Almost literally.”

“Can’t rush these things, Pierce,” Charles scolds, as he and Donna keep walking. “Have to let them happen naturally, you know.”

BJ and Hawkeye both lean forward as their hands brush, both of them holding their breath.

“C’mon baby, almost there,” Hawk mumbles, squinting at the fuzziness of the street cameras

And then the next time Charles’s hand brushes against Donna’s, he takes it and holds fast, lacing his fingers through hers. “Is this, er... satisfactory?”

“It's perfect. But don't let go of me, Chuck,” she says, amused. “You’re the only thing keeping me balanced.”

Quickly muting the microphone, Hawkeye whoops and leaps onto BJ’s chair, sending them crashing against the other panel, both of them cheering like they’ve just won the pennant, and clutching each other like crazy, yelling.

Hawkeye quickly flicks a switch and a rousing chorus of _ We Are the Champions _ bursts from the speakers.

“Do you have a Queen song for every occasion?” BJ asks, with an exasperated grin.

“You bet your ass I do,” Hawk says proudly. “Houston, we have contact.”


	4. Friday, 2:16 PM

It’s a glorious day, all things considered, warm and sunny after days and days of cold, rainy weather.

The view of the Tidal Basin is beautiful, a warm breeze that smells of cherry blossoms ruffling Donna’s hair as they walk along the footpath. 

“It’s gorgeous here in the spring,” Donna says, sounding oddly wistful as she looks around. “All the cherry blossoms, you know? Though the company helps.”

She squeezes his hand, and he’s surprised by the affection in her voice. 

“Y-Yes,” he replies, grateful that she doesn’t seem to notice his stutter. He’s barely noticed the cherry trees, so focused is he on Donna. “... beautiful.”

“Though…” she continues thoughtfully, “it’s not _ quite _as nice as the cherry blossoms in Tokyo.”

“Tokyo?” Charles’s daydreams grind to a halt as he stares at her in surprise. “_Japan _?”

“The Pearl of the Orient,” she jokes. 

“You mean…?”

“Oh c’mon Chuck, you think you’re the only one around here who’s a little cultured?” she teases, nudging him. 

“How is it that in all the time I’ve known you…?” he starts, confused. “You never said.”

She shrugs, amused. “You never asked, darling.”

He almost chokes on his next question at the way she says it, so casually. “When did you- I mean was- I-”

“I lived there for a year with one of my roommates from college,” she explains, laughing. “I had an opportunity to do a bit of work experience in Tokyo, working for a museum there. It was only supposed to be for six months, but I was young and stupid, and sort of…” There’s a helpless kind of shrug. “Fell in love with it.”

“I know exactly what you mean!” Charles says, relieved, and excited. “It’s a beautiful city.”

“Well I know _ you _loved it.”

“How do you figure?”

“You think you’re subtle, don’t you? You bring up _ your _time there almost as much as those digs you did in Egypt.”

“Oh.” He turns pink. “Yes, I’ve been most fortunate. But why… _ Tokyo _specifically? I’ve enjoyed the bulk of my travels.”

“Well, you get that look in your eye,” she says, cupping his cheek. “When you talk about Tokyo, and the kabuki and the food, and the culture…That faraway look like you’re not really here at all, and your voice gets all dreamy and out of focus…”

He’s leaning into her touch, and frowns when she lets go, the spell abruptly broken. “Do I? How embarrassing.”

**“**It’s endearing, I promise,” she says softly, and then leans in, “And just so you know…”

“Yes?” he asks, leaning in too, eager for whatever secrets he will learn.

“We’re being followed, I think.”

It takes a moment to sink in. “What?”

“I think that we’re being followed. Don’t look!” she says, grabbing his collar when he’s about to turn his head. “Just… keep on with this.”

“This?”

“Flirting,” she says with a bright smile, and then lets go of him, leaving him more than a little hollow. 

“I thought…” He clears his throat. _ I thought it was real. _“I did consider it a home away from home, I suppose, in the two years I was there. Tokyo, that is.”

“I can tell.”

“The city…” He’s distracted for a moment as Donna tucks her hair behind her ear. “It enchanted me.”

“Did you ever get that feeling…” Donna shakes her head. “Never mind.”

“No, what were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask if you ever had that feeling, like… no matter how long you lived there, no matter how much you considered it home, you _ still _ felt like it was _ so _obvious you didn’t belong?”

“All the time,” he assures her. 

“Well I mean, look at you,” she teases. “I could pick you out in any crowd.”

“I do stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Well,” she says, hooking her arm through his again, “Trust me when I say you look right at home here, with the cherry blossoms.”

He takes a deep breath and smells cherry blossoms, tries to imagine Donna in Tokyo, and it isn’t entirely a lie when he says, “I’d have liked to see _ those _cherry blossoms. With you, that is.”

She smiles. “I’d have liked that, Chuck.”

“And then… octopus and sake in this _ intimate _ little restaurant I discovered just off the Ginza. It won’t win any travel awards, but the food there is _ excellent_.”

“How about we save that for our honeymoon?” she asks, and it’s all an act, it’s her getting back into this little game, but he still blinks in shock.

“Our h-honeymoon?” he stutters in surprise. “As in… you and I?”

“Oh c’mon Chuck,” she says, mustering a smile, though he sees a flicker of hurt shining through. “Would it really be so awful to marry me?”

“No!” he protests. “I would love to marry you. Er. Hypothetically that is.”

She giggles, hurt feelings forgotten. “Would you?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Well, you’d have to get a ring first, you big lug,” she teases, elbowing him. “Can’t propose without a ring.”

“I _ could_,” he reasons. “But only a cad would do that, and though I am many things, I do hope I am not that.”

“You’re a gentleman,” she assures him. “But let’s just say I’d be on board with the idea if you _ did _want to marry me.”

“I could only _ hope _to have the good sense and taste to propose to you,” he says in return. 

“Well how could a girl resist a line like _ that?"_ she asks, and she’s definitely pink now, and the moment seems _ right, _so he takes her hands and squeezes them, turning to face her.

“Donna…” he says, and what he’s thinking must be written all over his face. 

And he isn’t sure of who might be watching or why, but it’s good, it’s right, this is how couples act, and he has to lean in-

“Hey you two, are you done playing grab-ass?” Hawk’s voice is loud in Charles’s ear, and he and Donna jump apart, exchanging a guilty look.

Charles takes a deep breath. “_Pierce_. How can we possibly be expected to be convincing if-” 

“Relax, _ Chuck_,” Hawk chides in return, cutting off his outrage. “Don’t get your monogrammed jockeys in a knot. You’ve been out here for an hour already, and I’m not so sure we’re gonna get lucky today. Well, not _ that _kind of lucky anyway.”

“Kindly cease and desist with the innuendo, Pierce,” Charles says, annoyed. “It is entirely distracting from our objective.”

“Flagg hasn’t shown up yet,” Hawkeye says patiently. “Though I have to say it’s not his style to be fashionably late. But you two are doing _ great_, really. More sap than a maple tree in March. Though...” 

“What more could we possibly do?” Charles demands.

“Let’s get some ice cream,” Donna says brightly, looping her arm through Charles’s, as if what almost just happened never happened.

“Ice cream?” Hawk asks over the wire. “Wh-”

“Hawkeye,” Donna cuts him off, a sweet voice hiding shards of ice. “We’ve had a man tailing us for the last ten minutes. I want to see if he’s really here for us.”

Hawkeye sounds flummoxed. “Tailing you? But-”

She shrugs. “Power of observation, Hawkeye. And if you’re going to wire us, shouldn’t you at least be paying attention to what we say?”

“Sorry,” Hawkeye says, but he does sound sheepish. “Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not _ sure_, that’s why I want to check it out.”

“But… I don’t get it,” Hawkeye says. “There’s no _ possible _way Flagg knows already that there are people after him.”

“Hawkeye, dear, he’s a paranoid CIA agent to begin with, and now he’s a traitor. I’m sure he knows that he’s not exactly in the running for prom king right now.”

“And he has yet to appear, so unless you plan on conjuring him from a hat, I do believe we are… what’s the word? Ah yes, _ sunk_.”

“He could have switched drop times,” Donna says patiently. “And locations, if he knows we’re on to him. And set a tail on us.”

“I’m telling you he’s not that smart,” Hawkeye says, a lot less patient. “Besides, this is DC! You can have anyone followed, it doesn’t necessarily mean Flagg knows anything!”

“Fine.” Donna gives Charles a smile, though he can see the frustration behind it. “I think we can keep each other company a little while longer, don’t you?”

“I- I think that would be amenable,” he agrees, still baffled. “But earlier, how did you-”

“Call me proper paranoid,” she admits, “but I’ve been keeping an eye on everyone we’ve passed. And we had someone double back to follow us.”

“You’re brilliant,” he says, stunned. “Truly.”

If possible, she turns a deeper shade of pink. “Never mind all that. Let’s get some ice cream, and see what this fucker wants.” 

“I agree entirely. But….” He trails off. “Ice cream?”

“You’re never too old for ice cream,” she says. “Trust me.”

“I do,” he says without hesitation, and smiles when she blinks. “Trust you, that is.”

“You know, It’s funny,” she says, as they make their way over to the ice cream stand, “but I just realized I don’t know what your favourite ice cream flavour is.”

“Anything but strawberry,” he tells her, laughing even as the memory makes his throat itch. “They give me hives.”

“Yes, I do think Hawkeye would be quite disappointed if we had to break cover to get you to a hospital, don’t you?”

“That man is-”

“A nosy Parker?” Donna asks innocently, and Charles laughs.

“Yes. Exactly.” They get in line, Charles closing his eyes and feeling the warmth of Donna’s arm against his, hearing the birds in the trees, and then he says, “Brownie.”

“Hm?”

He opens his eyes again. “Ben and Jerry’s chocolate fudge brownie. It’s… shall we say a guilty pleasure of mine.”

“Why Chuck,” Donna says, mock surprised and clearly trying to stifle a laugh. “Are you admitting to being one of the unwashed masses that enjoys Ben and Jerry’s?”

He holds a finger to his lips in a “shush” gesture and gets a thrill when Donna giggles. 

“And you?” he asks, after a few seconds.

She shrugs. “Tiger tail?”

“How… inventive.” He frowns. “What _ is _tiger tail?”

“Orange with a licorice stripe. Though come to that, I think it _ might _just be a Canadian flavour. But it’s really quite good,” she says defensively. 

“I have no doubt. I’ve always known you to be a lady of excellent taste.” He holds her gaze for a few seconds, as she smiles up at him. “Though I must confess it amuses me that _ you _are the one with the high-brow obscure favourite flavour.” 

“High brow? _ Ha. _No, Chuck, when I was a little girl…” she trails off. “I always used to call it Tigger Tail.”

He blinks, and then smiles back at her. “You’re…”

“What? Funny? Precocious?”

“Brilliant,” he says again, softly. 

“What can I getcha?” the attendant cuts in, and Charles makes a pretense of surveying the flavours, though he’s watching Donna out of the corner of his eye.

She’s grinning, and squeezes his hand. “Sorry, Chuck, I don’t see brownie flavour…”

“We got chocolate,” the kid offers. 

“Yes, but it’s not the _ same_,” Charles says with a theatrical sigh. “That is like saying ‘we don’t have Bach, will Beethoven do?’”

“Look, mister, I just work here,” the kid says.

Donna leans in, with a disarming smile. “What do you recommend?”

“I dunno…” He trails off, uncomfortable. “This is my first week.”

“Can you keep a secret?” she asks.

“Lady, I work for minimum wage.”

“Well you see… Keith,” she says, reading it off his nametag. “My partner and I are here undercover.”

Charles’s heart drops, because even in such a silly context, just one pair of ears needs to hear this sort of exchange…

“We’re food critics for the _ Washington Post_, trying to find the best ice cream stand in the city,” she says, batting her eyes at him. 

Charles nods, relieved, trying to look appropriately critical.

The kid, unable to resist being charmed by her, grins back. “That’s really cool.”

“And I want to know what you think the best flavour is,” she finishes with a smile.

“It’s- um-” The kid is flustered. “Well the rocky road is aces if it’s a chocolate kinda flavor you want.”

“Perfect.” Donna nods, authoritatively and Charles understands exactly why Potter hired her- her excellent resume aside, she could sell ice skates to penguins. “One scoop of rocky road for my partner then, and a scoop of…”

“Sorry Donna,” Charles says. “Looks like you’re plumb out of Tigger Tail luck.”

“Just a scoop of pistachio for me then.”

“Right away!” the kid says with a grin, turning to scoop the ice cream. 

“Congrats,” Hawk says in Charles’s ear. “Not only did you just waste five minutes, you also just committed a very original sin. Lying to the ice cream man.”

“Here we are, one scoop of rocky road for you sir,” Keith says, passing the cone to Charles. “And for you ma’am, a scoop of pistachio. That’ll be six dollars.” 

“What?” Charles asks, unable to resist the joke. “No discount?”

“No, and my boss says that if anyone asks about one to charge them double,” the kid says flatly, and then grins. “But I’ll just charge you the six.” 

“That’s very generous of you, Keith,” Donna says with a smile, taking her cone. “I’ll pay cash.”

“Oh no,” Charles says, catching on. “Donna, I insist-"

“Nope, my treat,” Donna says, handing over a ten. “Keep the change, Keith.”

“Thanks!” he says. 

“Donna-"

“Buy me dinner,” she tells him, standing on her toes and kissing his cheek. “We’ll call it even.”

“Fair enough,” he says with a laugh, trying to hide his embarrassment in front of Keith. “Though I am sorry neither of us got what we truly wanted.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Donna says, looking over at him. “Maybe we got exactly what we wanted deep down, we just don’t know it yet.”

“R-Right.”

They turn around, and Donna nearly collides with the man waiting impatiently behind them. “Excuse me,” he says gruffly, shoving between them so that Donna has to grab Charles’s arm for balance. 

“You’re excused,” Charles retorts, and he doesn’t spare a glance backwards.

“Forget about him, Chuck. How’s the ice cream?” she asks brightly.

He takes a tentative lick as they walk away. “Mm. I had my doubts, but this…This is rather good.”

“Mine’s great,” Donna says, grinning behind her cone, her eyes crinkling as she smiles, and it’s beautiful enough that Charles fumbles for his phone.

“Hold that thought.”

“Oh _ Chuck_,” she protests, laughing as he takes a picture of her with her ice cream cone. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I am sure you will come up with something,” he assures her.

“How about another picture?”

“Of you? Certainly.”

“No, silly old bear, our mutual friend.”

“Alright.” He smiles. “Come take one of those ridiculous self-portraits with me?”

“Why Chuck, are you asking me to take a _ selfie _with you?”

“Yes… a _ selfie_. That.”

She does, both of them grinning at the lens, which is pointed over her shoulder rather than at them. 

“Would you like to try this?” Donna asks when she pulls away, holding out her ice cream, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her mouth was just on it.

“I- er-” He tries not to blush, fumbling with his phone, and is sure he fails. “Only if you’ll try mine too. Fair is fair.”

“What, you’ll show me yours if I show you mine?” she teases, but takes the ice cream before he has a chance to stammer out a further explanation, trying not to think about how this has to be at least a bit like kissing (or, he thinks grimly, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation), putting his mouth where hers has been.

“Chuck,” she says seriously, glancing over her shoulder, “That man we ran into…”

“Donna.” He tries not to laugh, because despite how serious she is, there’s chocolate on the tip of her nose.

“What?”

And it’s his turn to laugh, to chuckle really as he looks at her, and eventually she starts laughing too, until they’re clutching each other and giggling, nearly dropping their ice cream in the process.

When Charles can pull himself together again, he pulls out his handkerchief. “Allow me.”

“Certainly.”

He dabs the ice cream from the end of her nose, watching her face the whole time. It feels too tender… too personal, too soft…

“Chuck, I-”

“Bad news,” Hawk says in their ear, once again dropping an atomic bomb on their moment. “Flagg really is a no-show.”

“Well any idiot could have told you that,” Donna mumbles. 

“An idiot is,” Charles tells her, and she giggles.

“Look, if you two are done flirting over your ice cream,” Hawk says impatiently.

“We’re not flirting,” Donna says, affronted, though she smiles at Charles. “We’re gathering intel. And I was _ right_, we are being followed.”

“And I told you, _ forget him_,” Hawk says. “That’s not why I radioed you. I was just talking to Margaret – sadly she was all business – and she said that Flagg is going to be at a charity ball tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” Donna repeats. “So we’re just supposed to be sitting ducks until then?”

“I told you, Flagg doesn’t know a thing. But we need to nab him-”

“Yes, and what exactly is your brilliant plan about how two _ civvies _ are going to arrest a paranoid CIA agent?” Donna asks.

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Pierce, this sounds suspiciously like an excuse to dress us up and parade us around like we’re your trained monkeys,” Charles says. “Besides which, are you _ really _asking us to twiddle our thumbs for the next twenty-four hours?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll put you up in a nice motel, and then we can pick it all up again tomorrow. Maybe by then I’ll have a plan.”

“A motel?” Donna repeats, baffled. “Why can’t we just go home?”

“You said you wanted to practice right? Well here’s your chance.”

Donna and Charles exchange a look. 

“Now, as for tomorrow night, how do you feel about black tie?” Hawk asks. “Or in your case, black decoder ring.”

“What say you, Donna?” Charles asks with a smile. “Would you care to accompany me to the ball?”

“As long as you get her back before midnight,” Hawk says, and Charles wishes more than anything that he and Donna were truly alone. “She turns into a pumpkin then.”

“Shut up, Hawkeye,” she mumbles.

“Would you do me the honour of accompanying me tomorrow night?” Charles asks again.

She squeezes his hand and gives him a soft smile. “Why Dr. Winchester, I’d be delighted. You’ve got yourself a deal.”


	5. Friday, 10:31 PM

“I had wondered where you’d gotten to,” Charles comments as he opens the gate to the motel pool deck, trying to keep his voice light. 

Donna, surprised, whips around, her face ethereal and otherworldly in the glow of the pool lights, a plastic glass clutched in one hand. “Oh, Chuck, it’s you.”

“I am touched by your excitement,” he says dryly as he walks over. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“It’s a semi-free country,” she says with a shrug. She gestures to the lounge chair next to hers, and gives him a curious look. “I just figured you’d be sick of me by now.”

“Sick of you? After only…” He makes a big show of checking his watch. “Ten hours?”

“Work,” she says, ticking things off on her fingers. “Practice. Lunch. The drop that wasn’t. More practice. Dinner. And now here.”

“To be fair, we _ were _ apart for oh, I’d say an hour this afternoon,” he offers. “To pack.”

“Right.” She eyes him over the edge of her glass as she takes a sip of whatever’s inside. “Chuck, what are you doing out here?”

“Practice,” he says, without elaborating.

She raises an eyebrow, skeptical. 

“You are a terrible cynic,” he tells her, sitting down. “Alright, not… exactly practice.”

She laughs. “I thought as much.”

He shakes his head. “Well, the couple on one side of us is watching _ Jaws_, judging by the sound of screaming, and the couple on the other side is enjoying revelry of a rather carnal nature, judging by the _ louder _ screams.”

She giggles at the dryness in his tone, and he feels a sharp flare of pride. “Yeah?”

“Either way, I do believe someone is being eaten on either side of us.”

She laughs harder, before toasting him through her giggles. “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”

“Yes, well, mercifully the only danger lurking in _ those _waves,” he says nodding to the pool, “is the six or so communicable diseases.”

“That movie,” Donna hiccups, and continues on, her voice brash and certain. “_Jaws, _I mean. It’s very queer.”

“Oh?” he asks. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“C’mon Chuck, Brody and Hooper literally swim off into the horizon together! Don’t tell me it’s not symbolic.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to go back inside?”

“Nah.” She takes a swig from her plastic cup. “I’d just have ended up rooting for the shark.”

“Really?”

“It was being a _ shark_, Chuck. Besides that movie is like- is like- an anathema to anyone who knows anything about sharks.”

He blinks, amazed. “Anathema?”

She waves a hand dismissively at her ability to remember the bulk of her vocabulary without having lost it down the neck of her bottle. “‘Sides, was bored out of my fucking skull in there.”

“Yes, I _ had _surmised that, right around the time you started valuing the paintings in our room.”

“I wouldn’t get rich off this place,” she says with a shrug. “Neither would you, unless you want to excavate the carpet in our room.”

He shudders at the thought. “Pass, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

He watches her take another sip. “What are you drinking?”

“What are you, the temperance league?” she asks, flippant. And then she grins. “It’s Four Roses. You want some?”

“I…” He’s about to remind her that they are technically on duty, but she is giving him a wide-eyed look, and his resolve crumbles. “Yes.”

He’s surprised her, but she recovers. “Well, you get two choices: you can have my glass, or the bottle?”

He eyes her plastic glass smudged with her lipstick, before shifting his gaze to the bottle, a bolt of panic darting through him. “The bottle.”

“It really _ is _casual Friday,” she says with a laugh as she passes the bottle over, ignoring the pointed ‘no alcohol’ signs posted around the deck. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“What?”

“Here.” She casually flicks open the top button of his shirt for him, her fingers warm against his throat, and Charles is sure all the oxygen leaves his lungs.

“Wh- I-”

“Casual Friday,” she teases.

“I… thank you.”

“Cheers,” she says, holding up her glass. 

“_Slainte_.” He toasts her with the bottle, before taking a sip that burns all the way down. “God that’s _ vile_.”

“That is entirely your fault for not taking the time to appreciate the bouquet,” she says with a sage nod. “Get it, the bouquet?”

He chuckles, taking another sip. “How can you _ drink _this?”

“Well I know it’s not a high-end cognac, but I have a _ lot _of good memories with it, so whatever floats your good ship lollipop.”

“Good memories, eh?” he asks.

“They’ve got Four Roses in Japan, you know,” she says, as if carrying on a normal conversation. “It was actually the first booze I tried, so it… tastes like home.”

“Home?”

“It’s my mother’s signature drink, Chuck,” she says, her voice tinged with nostalgia, though she’s at least still grinning. “She used to have it specially imported.”

“But… they sell it here,” Charles says. “Why…”

This elicits a wider grin. “My mother lives in _ Austria_, Chuck. But she _ always _had a bottle of Four Roses in the liquor cabinet.”

“You…” He clears his throat, hearing the longing in her voice. “You must miss her very much.”

“Hm? Oh. Yes.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry Chuck, I always get a little maudlin when I get drunk. We can’t all be fun drunks, can we?”

“If there is such a thing,” he says, not understanding the flash of amusement in her eyes. “But please, go on.”

“I haven’t seen her in a long time,” Donna says, almost apologetically. “Why is it that growing up means seeing less of the people you like and more of the ones you don’t?”

“If ever I should learn those answers, you shall be the first person I tell.”

“I’m not sure we’ve even spent any real time together since I was about seventeen,” Donna says. “I spent a few summers with her.”

He pauses mid-sip, and lowers the bottle as he turns to her. “You were in Austria?”

“Salzburg,” she says casually. “Not very exciting, I know-”

“Not very exciting?” he repeats. “But- I- _ Salzburg_, Donna! Mozart’s birthplace! A seat of culture!”

“You’d be amazed how few people were there for Mozart.”

He blinks, baffled. “Why else would you-”

“To see where they filmed _ The Sound of Music_.”

“Surely you jest.”

“Chuck, I wouldn’t kid about _ The Sound of Music_, alright? Not when I…” She laughs. “Can you keep a secret?”

“My lips are seals,” he promises.

“I was a tour guide with one of those companies that did _Sound of Music _tours.”

Startled, he laughs. “Really?”

“Really, really.” She takes another swig of bourbon. “It wasn’t one of my favourite things.”

He can’t help grinning as he looks over at her, a warmth that has nothing to do with bourbon flowing through him. “I’ll bet that was a sight.”

“It was!” She’s laughing, pretty and flushed with alcohol. “Oh God, I think I need another drink if we’re gonna keep talking about my dark past.”

“A dark past?” he repeats. “You? Hardly likely.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Chuck,” she teases as he refills her glass. “Ta.”

“I shudder to think how rotten we’re going to feel tomorrow, drinking on an empty stomach like this.”

“Clearly you were never a Girl Scout, Chuck,” she says, pulling a bag out of the pocket of her hoodie. “Haven’t you ever heard of '_be prepared'?" _

"I have, yes, but there are..." He looks up at her, "there are so many things you can never truly prepare for, aren't there?"

This makes her look at him, really look at him, her eyes clear and strangely sad, at odds with the glass of bourbon and bag of pretzels she's holding. "Yes, you could say that… Pretzel?"

“Oh.” He accepts a handful of pretzels. “Thank you.”

There’s silence but for the sound of crunching for the next few minutes. 

Until he clears his throat. “Donna?”

She looks over at him, pretzels forgotten. “Yeah?”

He looks down into his bourbon, all the courage in him that isn’t liquid having fled, and his words fail him. “Does… does this mean you hate the _ Sound of Music _?”

She blinks, surprised, clearly not expecting this question. “What?”

“I know that the- er- repeated exposure could have…” He trails off, embarrassed. “Do you hate it? Because that’s one thing I’m not entirely sure our relationship could withstand.”

“Our relationship?”

“The fake one,” he amends, and for a second thinks he sees relief in her face as she laughs. “But also the real one, because it’s a lovely movie.”

“No, darling, I don’t hate it. It’s still a very good movie, for all they did bastardize the ländler.”

“Did they?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes, setting down her cup. “C’mon Chuck.”

“Oh, Donna, Donna please-” he tries, but she isn’t easily dissuaded.

She grabs his hands, tugging him to his feet. “You’re going to learn the ländler. The proper one. Everyone of a romanceable age should know this dance.”

“And why is that?”

“Because,” she says, the _ duh _ evident in her voice. “Any idiot knows that the ländler scene is the peak of romance in cinema.”

“Aren’t you the little film critic?” He asks, too amused to panic. “Did you do that in Salzburg too?”

“Just dance with me, Chuck, and move your feet, not your mouth.”

“We are entirely not sober enough for this,” he comments.

“Well with any luck, you’ll… you’ll still remember this come morning.” She’s still grinning and he thinks for a split second how only a true fool could ever forget a second spent in her company.

“Alright. Show me then.”

“Well first… you bow to me, and I curtsy.”

“Simple enough,” he says, bowing to her, and she giggles her way through a very tipsy curtsy that is somehow all the more elegant for its clumsiness. “And now?”

“Now we dance, Chuck. Not exactly something they teach at the Hasty Pudding Club, is it?”

“N-Not exactly, no,” he manages, as she steps in closer and smiles at him. 

She walks him clumsily through the first few steps, and he doesn’t entirely remember the movie version, but it doesn’t feel like much of a difference, barring the small details like Donna’s hair smelling of cherry blossoms, and the way she laughs when she trips over his feet, a glorious little giggle. 

She is so beautiful, laughing and clutching at him as they waltz in the dim light, even though he nearly twirls her into the pool, and even though she keeps tripping on his feet. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, as she straightens herself, both of them laughing. 

“My fault,” she says, in between giggles. “My mother was a much better teacher.”

“You’re wonderful,” he promises. “As a teacher that is.”

As they waltz around the edge of the pool, his hand comes to rest on the small of her back, the heat bleeding through her clothes to burn him, and her breath hitches, a few bars lost in the tune she’s been humming under her breath. As they reach the final part of the dance, his eyes meet hers, sending a jolt of electricity down his spine. 

Their twirling slows, the humming quietly dying on Donna’s lips, but they are caught in each other’s gravity now, spinning so slowly, their eyes locked on each other as they twirl, his arms wrapped around her.

Her eyes flicker to his lips, so quick he isn’t sure he didn’t just imagine it.

He doesn’t even realize that they’ve stopped moving, staring at each other, breathing each other in. Her face is so close to his, her smile having faded into a look of intensity, the air between them charged like the moment before lightning strikes.

He’s both grateful and sorry for the loss when she steps away, leaving him breathless as though he’s just run a marathon.

“I… I think you’ve got it,” she says, her cheeks pink.

He’s inclined to agree: he’s got it, rather badly. “Do I?”

“Unquestionably.” She squeezes his hand. “Please don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

They stay where they are for a few seconds, still watching each other, and for the briefest of seconds he feels as though he's back on a dig, and has just uncovered something precious, only to have the sand shift back into place seconds later.

The thought bursts suddenly into his bourbon-soaked brain, loud and clear: _ I think I could love you_.

And before he can stop it, it nearly slips out. “I think I could-”

He stops dead, realizing the magnitude of error such a confession would entail, but it’s too late: the lightning has struck. 

“I think I could do with another drink,” he says weakly at the look she gives him. “Shall we?”

“Alright,” she says, looking almost disappointed.

“You said your mother was a good teacher. I’m assuming she taught you?”

“Yes,” Donna says, as they sit back down, Charles still weak-kneed and dizzy. “She taught all of us.”

“All of you?”

“My sisters,” Donna says, and smiles. “My father too, though he was a little more reluctant.”

“I’ve found fathers to be an overwhelmingly reticent breed,” Charles comments quietly. 

“Speaking of fathers,” she says. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well you just... you don’t talk about your family much.”

He laughs, humourlessly. “Want to see the old family tree, do you? Get inside my genes?”

She sighs, placing a hand on his arm. “Chuck.”

This sobers him, saddens him. “I’ll need at least another drink before we get into the maudlin part of the evening, my dear.”

“To your health then,” she says, as he refills her glass.

He takes a swig from the bottle, no longer feeling like a drunkard as the bourbon buoys his courage. 

When he lowers the bottle, she’s watching him. “Better?”

“Much.”

“We um… we don’t _ need _to talk about this,” she says cautiously. “I just didn’t want to monopolize-”

“Donna,” he cuts her off, his voice gentle. “I _ like _knowing you.”

“Oh.”

“Well… You know I’ve got a sister too.”

“Yeah. Honoria. Big name to live up to, isn’t it?”

“She and I both,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Though I must say she had some success with it, whereas I… didn’t.”

“Success at what?”

“Living up to the legacies before us,” he says, and takes another swig. “Making our parents proud.”

“I’m sure you-”

“Donna.” He sets down the bottle. “My parents are good people. My father… is a good man. But he is the type of man to prefer a son he can be proud of.”

“Chuck,” she says softly, taking his hand in hers. 

“I can’t blame him you know, not really, I mean since I’m- since I became an archaeologist,” Charles says, the truth slick with bourbon and rising in his throat. “It wasn’t what he wanted for me.”

“But _ you _wanted it.”

“Ever since I was small,” he admits. “But a powerful, influential man like my father wouldn’t want an _ archaeologist _for a son, and that’s that.”

“That’s that?” 

He nods. “We haven’t spoken in some time.”

“He doesn’t approve of… of archaeology as a discipline?” she asks, confusion and sadness flashing across her face.

“No, he’s… old-fashioned,” Charles says after a moment. “Conventional. As I said, not the type to proudly admit to having an _ archaeologist _in the family. Nearly cost my inheritance too.”

“Chuck, I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “Really.”

Their eyes meet, and he clears his throat, executing a necessary subject change lest he drown in her pity. “Another drink perhaps?”

“You do have some catching up to do,” she teases, not realizing how true her words are. “Since I do believe I have you at something of a disadvantage.”

“You did have a head start.”

“You know, I… I don’t think we’ve ever really gotten drunk together,” she says, suddenly hesitant.

“Would you like me to mark the occasion with flowers?” he asks, and holds up the bottle. “Roses, perhaps?”

He’s pleased when she laughs, the somber mood dissipating like the steam rising from the surface of the pool. 

“I’ve noticed you’re not much of a drinker,” she comments. 

“Well yes, it _ rarely _ends well when I do.”

There's an odd flash of hurt across her face that he doesn't understand but it soon vanishes. "It doesn't?"

“No…” He eyes her. “Like the night after I received my doctorate from Harvard… I _ distinctly _ remember trying to swim the Charles River in cap and gown, reasoning since it was named after _ me _it was my river.”

“Of course,” she laughs. “Did it not end well then?”

“No,” he says, and nearly shivers at the memory. “Got pneumonia.”

"And you remember that, but not-" She shakes her head, the words lost. 

“Not… _ all _ of it,” he corrects. “To this day I’m still uncertain as to how I got _ out _of the river. Or into it for that matter. Though I think… there may have been a bridge involved.”

“Oh.”

“Donna, it was… a silly, _ drunken _folly.”

“And nobody… you’ve never told anyone?”

“Anyone save my family. And now you.”

She smiles a little. “I’m flattered.”

He looks down at the bottle, unsure of what to say.

“Is there any more?” she asks.

He shakes the empty bottle. “Last call, I’m afraid.”

“Damn,” she says with a sigh. “Do you think it’s safe to go back inside?”

“I think the beaches are open,” he says, trying for a joke, and he’s relieved when she smiles. He stands up, proud when he only wobbles a little bit. “Shall we?”

“Certainly. I think we’ve had enough practice for one day.” She tries to get up, but sits back down, frowning. “I… think I might be a bit drunk.”

“Allow me,” he says, helping her to her feet, her hands clutching his arm as she finds her balance.

“See, I told you,” she teases, “You keep me balanced.”

They head back inside, Donna’s hand clutched firmly in his as they lean against each other for balance. 

Their room is now blissfully quiet, except for Donna, who is still humming to herself as she tugs pajamas from her suitcase.

Watching her, Charles is both sorry and grateful that the room has two beds instead of one. He both craves her proximity and fears it; such is her power over him. 

It takes his addled brain a second to place the tune, and then a sharper heat blossoms in his belly, because she is humming 'Edelweiss' to herself, waltzing dreamily towards the bathroom, pajamas clutched under one arm. 

Once the door is closed behind her, he changes, and then turns back the blankets on his bed. After a few moments, with a glance at the closed door, he turns down her duvet as well, smoothing a hand over her pillow. 

He’s waiting by the bathroom door when she emerges. So focused is she on buttoning her pajama top that she crashes into him, leaving them to awkwardly waltz around each other in the narrow space.

"Sorry," she says, pulling back, pink and flustered, the top of her shirt still gaping open.

He isn’t sure he breathes again until the bathroom door is shut behind him. He is mercifully composed by the time he opens the bathroom door again, flipping off the bathroom light.

Only the lamp on the nightstand is still glowing, casting Donna in gold and catching the lighter strands of her hair, making _ them _glow.

It’s so cozy-looking that it leaves an ache in his throat.

He crawls into bed across from her, only to find her propped up on one elbow, watching him. 

"Are you alright?" he asks, turning to face her, and mirroring her stance. 

“I was thinking…” She bites her lip, her blush renewed. “Why did you say yes?”

“Why did I… say yes?”

“To Hawkeye’s plan.”

“Because…” he has to think about it. “Because you did, I suppose.”

“But…”

“I may not trust his harebrained schemes, but I do trust _ you_. It’s not something I hand out freely.” He reaches for her hand, brushing his thumb over the lines of her palm, lines that some say can predict the future. “I trust you, Donna.”

“I trust you too.”

“And it was selfish of me to agree, but there is no one else I trust to keep you safe.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Because I… because I _ care_,” he says, withdrawing his hand, though he dreads the thought of letting her go. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“No. I guess not. I care about you too, Chuck”

"Then that is what matters," he says, and there is something more he wants to say, but it has already slipped away into the depths of his consciousness. "That is _ all _that matters. And it is not something that comes with practice."

“It never was,” she says, and then flips off the light, leaving him stunned at her last words. “Good night, Chuck.”

“G-Good night, Donna.”

He lies back down, but when he glances over, he can see in the glow of the streetlights leaking around the curtain that she's not asleep.

And the space between them may well be an endless void that he has no hopes of traversing, each of them their own island in the darkness.

"Chuck?" she asks after a few moments, sleepily, and his heart stutters in his chest, excitement and anticipation fueled by bourbon.

“Yes?”

“It isn’t hard.”

“What?”

“Pretending,” she says, her voice much too soft. “It isn’t _ hard _ to pretend.”

“Oh.”

“And I don’t - forgive me for being blunt - I really don’t get why you’re single.”

His cheeks flame hot in the darkness. “Well…”

“Like you and that French woman you were dating. Martine, that was her name right?”

“Yes,” he says, and closes his eyes to stem the tide of anger and regret that swells within. “Martine.”

“Whatever happened with her? I thought it was serious.”

“It was… a mutual parting. I suppose we both realized we weren’t quite right for each other.”

“You weren’t?”

“No,” he admits, closing his eyes. “We had differing interests, and wanted different things. She preferred someone with less… archaeological experience, I suppose. It simply… wasn’t meant to be.”

“Well forgive me for saying so, Chuck,” Donna says around a yawn, “but I think she was a fool. Any girl… _ anyone _would be lucky to have you.”

He swallows hard against the lump, and manages to step back from the void, bolstered by her bravery. "Th-Thank you."

"And if she couldn't see you, then maybe she wasn't looking hard enough," Donna says, quietly, and he doesn't know if she's still talking about Martine.

A few more seconds pass by, and then he hears her breathing change, leaving him awake and longing in the darkness to reach out and touch her, a single smoke signal from one lonely island to another.

"I think," he whispers into the darkness, the bourbon speaking for him, "that what she has lost may be what I gain."

And with one last glance at Donna, he closes his eyes- if not entirely at peace, at least temporarily at rest.


	6. Saturday, 6:26 PM

“Mm…” Charles twirls somewhat self-consciously in front of the mirror, feeling very much like someone on  _ Say Yes to the Dress _ , complete with an audience. “I don’t know that I particularly like this suit.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Max asks.

“What  _ isn’t _ wrong with it would be the better question, my dear Max. The cut is all wrong and it is entirely unflattering,” Charles complains. “No Winchester would be caught dead in this suit.”

“It’s also bulletproof, so you  _ won’t _ be caught dead in it,” Hawkeye says, grinning.

“It’s practical,” Max agrees. “And I didn’t hear any complaining until now!”

Donna is lying on the bed, still in her robe, and he can feel her gaze even without turning to look at her. “Chuck, darling, that suit could save your life, and yet you’re choosing to bitch because... what, it’s an Italian cut?”

“I hate Italians,” Charles grumbles, looking himself over in the mirror again, finally catching a glimpse of her in the mirror, sprawled out and unselfconscious as she watches him. 

“Well I happen to think you look wonderful,” she says, sitting up. “In fact, if you want my opinion, any woman would be lucky to walk in on your arm.”

“As my last official favor, I’m going to wait until I go outside before I throw up,” Hawkeye says from his seat on the desk. 

“Yeah, cool it you two, you’re not even downstairs yet.”

“Maybe they’re  _ practicing _ .” The sarcasm is unmissable. “Like last night. Oh! And literally the  _ whole  _ day.”

Charles cringes, but instead of rising to the bait, he merely fiddles with his bowtie. “Are we  _ sure  _ that Flagg is going to be there?”

“Margaret says he will.”

“The same woman who said he’d be at the park yesterday?” Donna asks, and turns to Charles. “You didn’t happen to see him yesterday, did you?”

“I er- didn’t notice. Flagg, that is,” he says, the bowtie forgotten around his neck. 

Donna grins, and slides off the bed, walking over to him. “Here, Chuck, let me tie that for you.”

“Oh- er-” It’s the closest she’s been to him since last night, and his cheeks suddenly burn hot at the memory, but before he can stutter out a reply, her hands are wrestling with the fabric. “Thank you. Never could get the hang of tying the damn thing.”

“You’re going to be the most handsome man in that ballroom,” she says, though she doesn’t meet his eye.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, and if she notices the color creeping up his neck, she thankfully doesn’t mention it, deftly bending the fabric to her will. “In fact, I’m quite sure I’m more of a pauper than a prince.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Chuck.” She finishes, and steps away, leaving a neat, if crooked bowtie, patting him on the chest. “There.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s a bit… um-”

“It’s perfect,” Charles cuts her off, and meets her eye when he repeats softly, “it’s perfect.”

“Look,” Max says, and the moment crumbles. “If you guys are done, I’ve got to get Donna ready.”

“Shoo out the clowns,” Hawkeye jokes, standing up. 

“Where do you think you’re going? I can get dressed in here,” Donna says, and rolls her eyes when Charles hastily steps away. “Oh for fuck’s sake, you three. You all know what I look like!”

“Perhaps we’re just gentlemen,” Charles points out, averting his eyes. 

“Speak for yourself, Chuckles,” Hawkeye says with a grin. “I’ve never been anything less than a vice-ridden degenerate.”

“Well, Max,” Donna says with a sigh. “I could use a hand if you’re not feeling too modest.”

“Sure, but you know if anyone walks in on us, I’ll have to marry you, right? And not Charles?”

Donna laughs, and Charles has to stand resolute as if a fist of resentment hasn’t just closed unexpectedly around his windpipe.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Max,” he says, his voice level. 

“Alright, alright, here’s how it’s gonna go,” Hawkeye says. “You two are gonna go downstairs, you’re gonna play nice with all the other boys and girls - sorry Max - and then come back upstairs and get some sleep- before midnight, or you’ll be hearing about it from me.”

“Yes,  _ mother _ ,” Charles says, unable to resist a shot.

“Thank you, fairy godmother,” Donna quips.

“Is this our cue to bippity boppity beat it?”

“Just a moment, Pierce. You still have not revealed to me your purportedly brilliant plan for arresting Flagg. That is, if that particular boogeyman is real and actually in attendance this evening.”

“Oh.” Hawkeye frowns. “I haven’t?”

“No, and you had promised me that you would have a plan by now, did you not?”

“It wasn’t a promise exactly, Charles-”

“Haven’t you guys ever heard of a citizen’s arrest?” Max asks. “Happens all the time on daytime cop shows.”

“Well, Max, seeing as this is  _ not  _ a low-budget production with actors better known for their off-screen antics than on-”

“Are you sure about that?” Donna teases.

“I have an arrest warrant right here,” Hawkeye says, giving Charles a smile. “This is what you wanted, right Charles? A plan?”

“And you think he’s going to come quietly?” Donna asks.

“Can any man?” Charles asks in response, before grinning at the stunned silence he gets in response. “That being said, an arrest warrant is not a plan.”

“Look, all you have to do is get close enough to grab him, read him his rights…” Hawkeye sighs. “It’s not gonna work is it?”

“No, I dare say it isn’t. Your scheme is admittedly less than brilliant. Especially when one considers you have had us sitting around doing nothing all day while you thought it up.”

“You didn’t sit around all day!” Hawkeye protests. “We were very productive.”

“No,  _ we  _ were very productive,” Donna corrects him. “You just sat by and critiqued our wardrobe choices.”

“As if a man with your fondness for Hawaiian shirts could be an expert on fashion.”

“You asked for a plan,” Hawkeye says. “An arrest warrant. That’s a plan.”

“Hardly.”

“Here’s an idea,” Donna says, sounding more than a bit amused. “Ever heard of this little trick called a honey trap?”

Charles blinks, and then the realization hits, the words slipping out before he can stop them. “No.”

“Wait, wait, wait, what’s a honey trap?” Hawkeye asks. 

“Absolutely not,” Charles says.

“C’mon Chuck, I just… show him a little leg, get him away from the civvies… and  _ then  _ we grab him.”

“You propose to use yourself as- as  _ bait  _ ?” Charles sputters.

“Ohhh.” Hawkeye’s voice is hushed. “Damn, Donna.”

“You’d rather it be you, Chuck? I mean I know you’ve got legs for fucking days, but-”

“I do not want you putting yourself in danger,” he says impatiently, cutting her off before he even has time to consider the implied compliment she’s just paid him. “I made that perfectly clear.”

“If it’s a choice between this and letting Flagg get away-”

“You’d let yourself be that reckless?” he demands, and his voice is too achingly vulnerable for just a second considering they aren’t even looking at each other.

Hawkeye clears his throat. “How about we call that a  _ plan B _ ?”

“Or better still a  _ plan F _ for fat chance,” Charles says. “Not to mention F for  _ flaw in your plan _ . Say we do have the fortune to stumble across Flagg tonight. Even if we arrest him, there is nothing to say he hasn’t already sold his unsavoury wares.”

“He was supposed to have his meeting yesterday, there’s no way he could set something up with so little turnaround time.”

“There is always a way,” Charles says quietly. “But going with your absurd hypothesis, would it not be more advantageous to merely conduct reconnaissance tonight?”

“Yeah,” Donna agrees. “If we see him, we don’t engage, but we tail him?”

“Tonight  _ is  _ for recon,” Hawkeye says slowly. “But you’re welcome to the arrest warrant anyway. I’ll leave it on the desk. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Charles tries not to blush.

“Anyway,” BJ says, “it’s like Hawkeye said. In, out, and then get some sleep.”

“We’re not sleeping  _ here _ are we?” Charles asks, looking around the suite. 

“Are you kidding?” Hawkeye asks. “Our budget more stretches to ‘army cot in utility closet’.” 

“No, this is Lieutenant Colonel Houlihan’s suite, which she’s graciously lent to us. You two are staying down on the third floor.”

“You mean… together?” Donna asks.

“Yeah, well we just figured it worked so well last night…” Hawkeye trails off. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No,” Donna answers quickly, and Charles wonders if she’s answered a mite too quickly.

“It’s a room just like last night,” BJ assures them. “Two doubles. No hanky panky. Unless you two decided to bring in another bottle of bourbon for old times’ sake?”

Charles swallows hard, swearing he can taste the Four Roses in the back of his throat, and the astringent chlorine rising from the pool water. 

“Didn’t you hear?” Donna asks. “Prohibition was declared. Besides, that was my last bottle.”

“So what’s the problem?” BJ asks.

“You’re in room 3110,” Hawkeye says, handing Charles the room keys. “Briefing at that diner around the corner at oh-six-thirty tomorrow morning, per Potter’s orders. But if you can sniff something out before then, we’d love to stick our noses in it.”

“Oh-six-thirty. What’s that in people time?”

“Look, I don’t like using it any more than you do, but it’s Potter’s rules and Potter’s bank account, so I have to say oh-six-thirty. In people time we call that ‘oh my god it’s early’. Though ‘oh-six-thirty’ is pretty damn obvious on its own.”

“In the meantime, stay safe, and keep your ears to the ground,” BJ says, heading towards the door.

“And don’t get stepped on in the process,” Hawk adds. “If there are any problems…”

“We’ll be sure to call you.”

Hawkeye looks between Charles and Donna, halfway out the door. “... sure you will.”

The door slams shut, and Donna laughs, almost to herself. “You can turn around now, you know.”

Charles hesitates for just a split second, because this is the first time they’ve been alone since the motel room, and the easy intimacy between them feels suddenly adrift. Until he turns around. 

He has to clutch the edge of the mirror for support, his knees suddenly weak.

Donna’s hair is pinned up, with a few stubborn curls spilling out against her neck. 

She’s a vision in dark purple, beautiful and elegant, and Charles isn’t sure he remembers how to breathe as he stares at her.

Because that dress, that damnable  _ dress _ .

Her shoulders are bare, golden in the dim lamplight, a full skirt of purple making her look as though she’s stepped out of a painting, vibrant colors edged in gold, and if Charles breathes, he doesn’t notice.

She has stolen his reason, his intelligence, and left behind only a man aching with love and awe.

And seeing her makes Charles understand why purple is a royal color.

“You’re-” he starts, and is embarrassed when his voice cracks. “You are  _ beautiful _ .”

The nervous look on her face blossoms into a smile, and he’s about ready to get down on his knees, white flag clutched like a handkerchief in one shaking hand. 

“Thank you,” she says.

“No, Donna I…” The words don’t come, so instead he settles for honestly. “Really, I mean it… you… it’s indescribable.”

She’s turning pink, but at least she’s still smiling. “Well, a man like you ought to have a beautiful woman on his arm… and I hope I… I hope that can be me.”

“There would be no greater honor,” he says, his voice soft, his mind still desperately whirling.

“Would you um- would you help me with these?” He realizes belatedly that he’s likely unnerved her with his staring as she holds up a string of pearls.

He can’t ignore the intensity of what he’s feeling, this sudden realization, this lightning strike that he could have ignored had it only happened while drunk on bourbon, but no longer can sober, that this is real and right and  _ serious _ .

Lightning never strikes twice but it does now: he could love her.

It would be so terribly easy.

“Yes,” he says, stepping forward to help her, swallowing hard at the memory of pearls and the flash of a blade in a dark street, and- “Of course.”

His fingers fumble a few times with the clasp, before he finally manages. He brushes a finger over the smooth skin at the back of her neck, and for a foolish second he gets a fleeting impulse to lean down and kiss her, soft and gentle and a claim to something he has no right to.

Until he notices that she’s shivering. “Donna?”

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” She turns and looks up at him, and any fool could see she isn’t fine. “Why?”

“Because you’re trembling,” he says, gently. “Are you cold? Perhaps my jacket-“

“It’s not that,” she says. “I’m just… nervous.”

“Nervous?” he repeats. “Why? I already told you I wouldn’t let any harm-”

“No, no, not about that, Chuck. Though I’d really rather deal with him than… this.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look, Chuck, society balls may be your idea of a good time-”

“Balls are  _ rarely  _ my idea of a good time, if ever,” he says, and when she doesn’t smile, he nods. “I’ll save that one.”

“They’re a bit out of my wheelhouse. I mean fuck, I majored in ‘open mouth, insert foot’ in college around the same time you were learning about silverware.”

“I do recall skipping that week.”

“I just don’t want to make a fool out of myself… or you.”

He can’t help but smile at this admission. “I think you underestimate yourself,” he says quietly.

“How do you mean?”

“Only that…” he trails off, smiling hesitantly. “I have never met anyone quite like you. Regardless of what those other poor fools think. This one… rather thinks you do him credit.”

“Then maybe he’s a fool after all.”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But fool I may be, I am also yours. At least for this evening.”

She smiles, reaching up and straightening his bow tie. “We don’t even match.”

“Of course we do,” he says, mock affronted, and gestures to his feet. “We fit together. See?”

She does look down, only to see the purple chucks, and grins.

“Though I must warn you, they give the illusion that my feet are bigger than they are,” he says, leaning in. “I’d hate for you to get the wrong idea.”

She laughs then, the tension bleeding off her shoulders, and Charles feels the laugh down to the soles of his purple chucks, and God help him, he grins like an idiot. 

He offers her his arm. “Shall we?”

“Why Chuck,” she says lightly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

***

Donna hasn’t been a guest at too many society balls, even ones purportedly for the purposes of charity, but if she had to guess from Charles’s reaction, this one is fairly standard. 

As dinners go, it isn’t bad, although the food itself is mediocre enough that she pushes it away after a few bites, anxiety and the lingering alcohol in her system from last night stealing her appetite. 

The other guests are vastly richer than she is, and while Charles tries to engage her in conversation, she can tell that he isn’t fully attentive. The tension in his shoulders gives it away, and she finds herself constantly scanning the ballroom for any sign of their mark.

Charles squeezes her hand under the table, trying to put her at ease, and laughs at her shitty jokes that to the other guests are clearly a faux pas.

(This isn’t her world, not anymore, and she doesn’t miss it, but oh how she hates playing the fool.)

“Chuck,” she says, leaning in, under the cover of the band starting up another song. “Do you want to dance?”

He’s been scanning the ballroom for any sign of Flagg, but at this, he turns, so fast she wants to call a doctor to check him for whiplash. “I beg your pardon?”

She swallows hard, trying to conceal her confused disappointment at what has to be dismay written all over his face. “Well I just mean- it’s very… convincing… for the case?”

“For the case,” he repeats, and nods. “Yes.”

And it’s all wrong, staged and purposeful, not the easy slowness of a bourbon-fuelled waltz, but she’s pathetic enough that it doesn’t matter, because it’s for  _ her _ , case or not.

Until Donna notices the man walking towards them, and reaches instinctively for the weapons she doesn’t have. “Chuck…”

“I know.”

The man stops in front of them, turning a faint shade of pink. “Excuse me, Miss…?”

“Ogden,” she says, exchanging a helpless look with Charles. “Lauren Ogden.”

“I’m sitting a few tables over, and I was just… wondering if you’d like to dance?”

“Oh.  _ Oh! _ ” She glances guiltily at Charles, who looks as though he’s made out of stone. “Yeah. I mean yes! Yes, you may.”

She gives Charles a look, silently imploring him to watch her back. He sets his jaw, and nods.

“Quite the affair, isn’t it?” her dance partner says, as they take to the floor, his hands coming up to press against her hips.

“Yes,” she says, barely resisting the urge to shove him away. Mercifully, after a few seconds, his hands move to her waist instead.

“You looked very intense back there- was that your husband?”

“My husband?” Donna laughs. “No, no, he’s just a colleague. A business partner.”

“Oh? What sort of business?” he asks, and for a second she thinks his irises will change to dollar signs like the old cartoons.  _ Pleased to meet you, Scrooge McDuck,  _ she thinks to herself, and smiles.

“I’m with the Red Cross.” She smiles. 

“How fascinating! You must travel a lot.”

She nods, and smiles, and grits her teeth through more small talk, eyes still scanning the ballroom, and it isn’t as though she needs rescuing, but at the same time-

“Excuse me,” comes a mercifully Boston-affected voice from beside her, and she nearly goes weak-kneed with relief. “Mind if I cut in?”

“Of course.” Her partner steps gracefully aside, giving the two of them a once-over and then smiles.

“You certainly took your time,” Donna says, the first words popping into her head, and Charles looks… almost hurt. “What, was your noble steed in the shop? Feeling unstable?”

“I was making sure Flagg wasn’t around,” Charles says. “Watching your back. As you… requested.”

They stand there for a second, awkwardly, as the band strikes up an actual waltz. 

“Would you like… to dance?” she asks.

Charles snorts. “This isn’t really dancing. Not… not like last night, anyway.”

“We could dance,” she says, before she can stop herself. “Properly, I mean. If you know how to waltz.”

“Of course I do,” he says, surprised.

There’s another uneasy silence, both of them clearly thinking of their last dance, and then Charles sighs, holding out a hand. “Shall we?”

“Sure,” she says, and she steps in close, taking his hand in hers, his other coming up to rest against the small of her back. She inhales sharply, her eyes flickering up to his at the memory as they start to dance, only to see that he is looking back intently.

Because the last time he touched her like this, the last time his hand caressed the small of her back like this, was last night, all drunken giggles and dizzying spins.

It suddenly feels as though they’re the only two people in the ballroom.

It’s the most real she’s felt since last night.

“You know,” he says as they dance, as if he’s read her mind, “I took many a dance lesson as a boy, but it never felt as good to learn as it did with you.”

Donna blinks. “Yeah?”

“I was thinking…” He ducks his head, his cheeks endearingly pink, “that perhaps I could learn a lot from you, Donna.”

“Except maybe not this dance,” she stammers out. “Obviously.”

“No,” he admits. “This was probably the first dance I ever learned. Though you’re much prettier than my last dance instructor.”

“Oh? And what was she like?”

“Well he had a very long beard,” Charles starts, and looks gratified when she laughs. “And he was always telling my sister that with just the right moves, she could be a lady- though personally, I think that depends on the moves.”

She laughs for real this time at his mischievous smile, and he gives her a rather lewd wink in response, one that leaves her a little giddy and breathless.

She gives in to a dangerous impulse, and moves in closer, her arms still wrapped around his neck, her head resting on his chest. His hand presses tighter against her back by instinct, but he still sounds stunned. “... Donna?”

“Shh, we’re selling it here,” she murmurs, feeling his heart beating under her head, and it may just be her imagination, but it’s almost beating faster, the longer the dance goes on. 

She feels, rather than sees, Charles take a deep breath. “Donna, I-”

And then the song segues into a fast, upbeat pop song from recent years, and they break apart disappointed, the world rushing back in around them.

“I should um-” She swallows. “Powder my nose. I’ll be back!”

And she takes off into the crowd before he can stop her, trying not to imagine the fresh scent of his suit, and the way he looks at her when they both pretend he isn’t looking. It’s safer and easier to flee like a goddamn coward in the direction of the washrooms at the side of the ballroom.

Once she’s inside, she leans over one of the sinks, breathing heavily. “Fuck,” she murmurs, because it just repeats in her ear again and again.

_ Donna, I- _

_ Donna, I- _

And she remembers another aborted confession, those bourbon-slick words that tumbled from his mouth last night:  _ I think I could- _

Worst of all, she thinks she could too.

“Miss Parker?” She turns, only to find Lieutenant Colonel Margaret Houlihan, splendid in full military regalia (the kind that would leave a sour taste in Hawkeye’s mouth, but he isn’t here and she is), beaming at her, and holding out a hand. 

“Hello,” she says cautiously, shaking it.

“It is you!” Margaret says, shaking her hand enthusiastically. “I’ve heard so much about you from Pierce!”

Donna crosses her fingers in the pocket of her gown, praying that Hawkeye has chosen this particular moment to go get a sandwich, and isn’t listening. He’d never let her hear the end of it if he was listening- BJ at least might be more lenient. “All terribly unflattering, I hope.”

“Every single word,” Margaret agrees. “Except he neglected to mention how stunning you are in person. You are still working for him, right?”

“Of course,” Donna says. “Though if you two are as close as he says you are…”

Margaret waves a hand dismissively. “It was purely recreational. And happened years ago.”

“Off the record, of course,” Donna says, with more than a hint of savvy.

“Of course,” Margaret agrees. “Is he still paying his team in peanuts and moonshine?”

“Oh, we get by,” Donna says defensively. “Probably not quite as lucrative as your line of work though.”

Margaret laughs at the shot. “It helps when you’ve got some rank to throw around.”

“I’ll bet. I saw you were up for promotion again,” she offers. “Congratulations.”

“Oh, right. Well, being a full Colonel will be wonderful, but I’m going to do  _ better _ . I’m going to be the first in my family to make general,” Margaret says proudly. “You know, my father only made Colonel before he retired.”

“You must be very proud,” Donna says.

“I am. Which reminds me…” Margaret presses a business card into Donna’s hand, smiling. “If you’re ever looking to change specialties, I’d be glad to find a place for you.”

“Margaret Houlihan,” Donna says, staring at the business card, “are you trying to poach me?”

“Let’s just say you have a lot of potential,” Margaret replies. “And a certain skill set I’ve come to appreciate. Too much for Pierce’s backwater outfit and shoestring budget.”

“Look, Margaret, I-”

“And we have plenty of civilian staff in my office, so you wouldn’t even have to enlist.”

“Well that would be good,” Donna says dryly. “I think Hawkeye would pitch a fit if I joined the army.”

“Yes, he’s made his opinions well-known,” Margaret says, equally dry. 

“Look, as flattered as I am, I don’t know what you’d need me for. The army has very little to do with art.” 

“Please, at least think about it.”

“And do your hiring practices usually involve hotel bathrooms?” Donna asks, amused. “Because if so, you may want to rethink that shoestring budget comment.”

“Well I’d have gladly approached you at the table, but you seemed pretty absorbed in your conversation with Charles.” She pauses for a beat. “I hadn’t realized you two were an item.”

“An item?” Donna repeats, and the penny drops. “Oh, no, no, we’re not an item.”

Margaret raises an eyebrow. “Hm. I’ve just never seen him show that much interest in a woman before. I was starting to think… well.”

“You and Charles know each other?”

Margaret shrugs. “I know everyone.”

“There is nothing romantic between Charles and I,” Donna says, a little too firmly. “We’re here… well. Can you keep a secret?”

Margaret gives her a coy look. “Working at the Pentagon? I should hope so.”

“Cute as ever,” Donna hears a mumble in her ear, and cringes. She’d forgotten Hawkeye was listening in. 

“Listen,” she says, leaning in as one of the hand dryers starts blowing on the other side of the partition. “Chuck- Charles and I are here for work.”

“Oh of course,” Margaret says, her expression changing. “Flagg.”

Donna smiles, and taps the side of her nose. “You’d be correct. And it’s thanks to your information I might add.”

“Don’t thank me too soon,” Margaret says automatically. “You don’t have him in custody yet.” 

“Well, that’s why Charles and I are here. Together.”

Margaret snorts. “Well I can’t speak for you, but any man who can look at you the way he does and feel nothing must be a damn good actor.”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous,” Donna says, splashing cold water over her hands, trying to ground herself against a racing heart and an even faster mind, skipping ahead leaps and bounds to all kinds of conclusions. “We’re just colleagues. Even saying we’re  _ friends  _ would be stretching it.”

It’s a lie, bitter and hard to swallow, because what they are…

What they are is colleagues and friends, and just lately… a tiny bit more.

“I’m sure,” Margaret says. “But if you want my advice? One career woman to another?”

“Yeah.”

“Make sure he’s worth it. And if he’s not, I’m sure there’s plenty of others out there dying for a bite out of you. Just like him.”

Donna smiles to her reflection. “Nobody is just like him.”

“Still.”

“Thank you,” Donna says wryly. “Any other sage advice you feel up to dispensing today?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

Margaret gives her the once over, eyes lingering. “Watch your back.”

“Duly noted,” Donna says, watching Margaret leave in the mirror. She reapplies her lipstick, trying to ignore a slight tremor building in her wrist, and barely manages to resist the urge to laugh at Margaret’s insinuations. A job offer, love advice and innuendo, all in one conversation. Only in DC.

She stalls for a few more minutes, smoothing out any wrinkles in her dress, and she’s about to leave, when she hears a loud and boorish voice passing the doorway, clearly talking on a cell phone.

She quickly slips off her heels, carrying them in her hand as she tiptoes down the creaky wooden hall to slip into an alcove and listen-  _ because she recognized that voice. _ She presses herself flat against the wall of the nook she’s crammed into and digs her nails into her palm, trying to calm her racing heartbeat.

“Don’t play dumb, Ivan, you’re not half as good at it as I am! I wanted that deal made today!”

Donna forgets how to breathe for a second, because it’s  _ Flagg _ .

“Of course not, you moron, not when they could be watching us! We’ll have to do it tomorrow. Uh huh. No, nobody is listening in, how stupid do you think I am?”

There’s a pause as Donna strains to hear the rest of the conversation. 

“I'm by the women’s john, and trust me, none of those bimbos know enough to know something is going on- they're more worried about smudged make-up than politics.”

Donna has to consciously relax when she realizes her jaw is clenched, and her heels almost slip from her sweat-slick fingers. “Fucking bastard,” she mumbles to herself, and claps a hand over her mouth when she hears the echo. 

“Well of course I’m unpredictable! I’m so unpredictable that even I can’t predict what I’m doing, and that’s how  _ they  _ can’t predict what I’m doing either! Do we have a deal or not?”

Donna holds her breath, waiting.

“ _ El Día  _ \- None of that foreign mumbo jumbo! You’re in  _ America,  _ speak  _ American! _ ” He pauses, clearly listening. “Right. Jefferson. Three kings. And don’t forget my scorpions!”

Donna blinks, confused.  _ Scorpions? _

“I told you, they’re for a friend! I’ll see you tomorrow.” There’s a muttered oath from Flagg, who has clearly hung up on his goon.

Donna slips her shoes back on, ready to duck out of the alcove as she hears the footsteps coming down the hall, and she has to hold her breath for a second, before she steps out of the alcove- and directly into Flagg himself.

They both nearly fall over, Flagg barking out a “watch where you’re going!” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Donna says, smoothing out her dress as she lets go of his arm. “I was just looking for the ladies’ room.”

Flagg rolls his eyes. “Well you’re headed in the wrong direction. Excuse me.”

She can’t help but notice the speculative look he gives her, before he shakes his head in disgust and walks away. Her toes are curled up inside her heels, her heart is pounding, and she doesn’t relax until she’s sure he’s gone, letting out the breath she’s been holding with a whoosh.

“Damn it all,” she mumbles, before kicking her heels off, hitching up her skirt, and running back to the ballroom as fast as she can. 


	7. Saturday, 8:23 PM

Donna skids through the doorway of the ballroom in the middle of another upbeat pop song, out of breath and panting, her lungs aching in her chest, already looking around for Charles.

Foolish though it may have been to go off alone, at least she isn’t returning empty-handed.

She glances around for Flagg, but instead catches sight of Charles, sitting at their table in bored contemplation of the dancers, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was looking for prospective hook-ups for the evening.

But, ever the professional, she knows he’s looking for Flagg, the way she is. 

As if by magic, his eyes meet hers, and his face lights up. 

She can’t help but grin in response, and she hurries over in her stockings, the floorboards slippery under her feet. 

Charles is standing, and waiting, and watching, like she is the only thing that matters.

It’s inevitable that she should slip on the polished hardwood floors, and Charles has to dart forward to catch her in an awkward dip, his arms clutching her tight as though he’s afraid if he lets go, he’ll lose her. They’re both breathless and wide-eyed, and for just a second, she thinks he’s going to lean down and kiss her, and for just a second, _ she wants him to_.

She wants him to more than anything, wants to lose herself in the taste of his mouth and-

Her train of thought is interrupted by the wolf whistles and applause from the nearby guests, and her cheeks must be as pink as Charles’s look in the dim light while he pulls her upright.

He clears his throat, self-conscious. “I… am glad I caught you.”

“Thanks Chuck,” she mutters, straightening his bowtie so she doesn’t have to meet his eye. “So much for being inconspicuous.”

He shrugs. “We were bound to be noticed sooner or later, my dear. Though really, what’s one more half-inebriated couple in a ballroom full of them?”

She’s about to reply, indignant, when she sees his eyes twinkling. “Oh.”

“Besides, you’ve caught the eye of every man in this place in that… dress.”

“Every man, huh?” she asks, grinning.

“Most definitely,” he assures her, though he seems to realize what he’s said a second later. “Er-”

“Listen,” she says, ignoring his embarrassment, “do you think we could go upstairs now?”

His face twitches almost imperceptibly, but then he nods. “I was hoping you’d say as much. This music is _ excruciating_. Have these cretins never heard of Tchaikovsky, or Rachmaninoff?”

“What kind of parties are you going to where they play Rachmaninoff?” she asks, as they make their way out of the ballroom, her mind still racing with the details of the overheard conversation.

“Society parties,” he says bluntly. “Though as you may have surmised from our little chat last night, it _ has _been… a few years.”

“Archaeologists not popular at those sorts of parties?” she asks, a little curious.

“Not… exactly, no.”

She shivers as they head out into the hotel lobby, the sudden temperature change leaving her shaking with chills.

“Donna, are you alright?” Charles asks, clearly noticing, and she nods.

“Yes, I’m-”

“Here.” And then he’s wrapping his suit jacket around her shoulders. 

She tries to ignore the warmth blossoming in her chest that has nothing to do with the warmth of the jacket. “Sorry for ruining your outfit.”

“Quite all right,” he assures her. 

“You still cut quite the dapper figure,” she says, as the elevator door opens. “A real James Bond, if you ask me.”

He straightens, examining himself in the mirrored wall of the elevator. “James Bond?”

She giggles at this display, and tugs the jacket in tighter around herself. “Yes.”

“I don’t know whether I should feel flattered… or insulted,” Charles says, raising an eyebrow. “Which James Bond did you have in mind?”

“Sean Connery,” she says, without hesitation.

“Hmm.” He nods at his reflection. “I can accept that.”

“Good.”

They’re both quiet for a second, and then he clears his throat. “Donna…”

“Yes?”

He has a funny expression on his face, as if he’s searching for the right phrase. “May I… ask you something?”

“Yes, of course,” she says, hoping that she doesn’t sound too hopeful. “Anything.”

“Well um, it may sound a bit strange, but…” He ducks his head, and then frowns. “What happened to your shoes?”

The world crumbles.

“My shoes,” she repeats, before remembering she’s still in just her stockings. “Oh. Right. Well, let’s just say that on the way back from the ladies’, I ran into a mutual friend of ours in the middle of an important business transaction.”

“You what?”

“Well it wasn’t a business transaction really, more like a conversation with one of his cronies.”

Charles blinks, his fingers hovering over the button for their floor. “Flagg?”

“No, Fidel Castro. Yes, Flagg!”

“He’s _ here _?”

“Well he _ was _ here,” Donna says with a shrug. “I couldn’t tell you for sure where he is now, but I _ can _tell you that he was arranging a new drop time when I stumbled across him.”

“He was arranging the drop in an open hallway?” Charles asks, incredulous, letting his hand drop. “Where anyone could overhear him?”

“Yeah, he _ is _ a fucking moron, but it did work in our favor because someone _ did _overhear him and that someone was me.”

“That’s… that’s fantastic.”

“The only little snag was that he saw me,” Donna says, trying to sound casual as she reaches around him to press the button for their floor, but the way Charles stares at her makes her backtrack immediately. “I mean-”

“_He saw you? _” Charles asks, turning to face her. 

“Relax, I played dumb,” she says, backing away at the way he seems to swell with rage. “Chuck-”

“You just happened to stumble across him, did you?”

“Well yes, after I-”

“Just by pure coincidence?” he asks, eyes aflame. 

“Yes, Chuck, I-”

“You did it, didn’t you?” Charles demands. “Went off and arranged a little _ honey trap _for him-”

““No, I ran into him by _ accident_-”

“After everything, I don’t understand how you could do something so indescribably foolish-”

“It got us answers didn’t it?”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous-”

“I can take care of myself, Chuck, honestly-”

“You could have gotten yourself killed,” he tells her, jabbing the emergency stop button, before grabbing her by the shoulders, the elevator going dark around them. “Please, Donna, you have to be more _ careful _!”

“I didn’t _ plan _to find him, Chuck, but I just got the opening we were hoping for!”

“On your own, where I couldn’t keep an eye on you!” he says, upset. “When I promised to have your back and _ I wasn’t there _!”

“What do you care anyway, so long as we end up nailing the bastard?”

“I…” He deflates, the anger evaporating. “You are so very brave and reckless,” he says at last.

“I am. And that bothers you?”

“I…” Charles’s voice breaks, and he has to look away. “I couldn’t… stand to see you hurt, Donna.”

“But why?”

“Because I care,” he says, looking up at her at last. “I.. I care so very much.”

“I care too,” she says. “I want to get him-”

“No,” he cuts her off. “Not about the case. I care about _ you_. Only you.”

Their eyes meet, and she drowns in his gaze, as the magnitude of what he’s said crashes over her, leaving her breathless and struggling.

The elevator is suddenly too small for all these feelings that neither of them will name.

But this-

_ Only you _.

This changes everything, sets her mind racing a few steps ahead, because there is an entire spring-trap, a rolling boulder behind those two words, loaded with meaning and dangerous with want.

This could be everything they have danced around for two years, this could be the holy grail of _ something _that they’ve denied themselves in the name of staying friends, in the name of their profession.

This could be the leap of faith moment.

_ Or, _ she thinks, swallowing hard, watching him, _ or it’s the path that crumbles the second you take a wrong step. _

“I didn’t know,” she says after a second, and maybe it’s not a leap, maybe it’s a single step, but Charles looks up at her all the same.

“How could you not?”

And the ground, oh how it crumbles at the edges, just the tiniest shift, as they stand and watch each other. For just a second, Donna wonders if she knows him at all, wonders if all along they’ve been two strangers.

“How can _ I _not?” he asks, a little softer, and he looks away again.

“Charles, it’s…” She bleeds at the edges, scraped by the rawness of his voice, wanting to tell him more than anything that his feelings are mutual.

But how can she take this… this _ care _and make it small, act as though her feelings can compare?

“Catching Flagg... “ He shakes his head. “Do you not understand that such a victory would be meaningless if it cost me you? That… that _ any _victory would be meaningless without you?”

“You said you care,” she says, confused. “You said…”

_But in what way?_ she wants to cry.

“I said it,” he says, “and I meant it.”

She watches him from the corner of her eye, Charles standing resolute as if he hasn’t shaken their whole world with the precision of a child handed a snow globe.

His hands are firmly in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the floor indicator, decidedly not looking at her as he reaches forward, turning the elevator back on, both of them blinking at the bright lights overhead.

“I…” she tries to breach the silence, feeling light-headed and out of breath. “I care too, Charles.”

His shoulders slump then, defensive posture lost, but he still doesn’t look at her. “I know.”

“Oh.”

“It just doesn’t make it any easier.”

She could give a billion answers, could ask a billion questions, could ask what about this is easy, could ask him why it’s so easy to love him and yet so hard to tell him, but she is frozen.

The silence ticks on, the only sound the ambient noise of the elevator, both of them aware of the space between them, both aware that this is a breach that cannot be crossed.

_ Only you, _ she thinks again, staring at him.

Two words, two quiet thumps as the die is cast, and then the Rubicon is crossed.

The elevator doors slide open, but the tension of it clings to both of them like secondhand cigarette smoke.

Charles is walking ahead of Donna, faster on longer legs, and she has to hurry to keep up. “Chuck, wait. _Wait_.”

He stops, and waits for her.

The words are heavy, and loaded with meaning, but she can still see the fear etched into his face. “Look, I’m- I’m sorry.”

He blinks, surprised. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “Really. I’ll be more careful.”

His voice is quiet. “I would appreciate that.”

There’s a single heartbeat of silence between them, a look of shared understanding.

Donna has to look away first, clearing her throat. “I… I guess we should find our room.”

“Yes,” Charles says, “and though I can’t say I approve of your methods, I would like to know what Flagg had to say for himself.”

“Oh?”

“And preferably over a hot meal. Are you hungry?”

“I… could eat,” she says. “The food downstairs was terrible, wasn’t it?”

“I hardly noticed. But then, I was preoccupied.”

“Watching for Flagg?”

He snorts. “Watching _ you_. Not that it matters, since either way, I’m famished.”

His stomach growls loudly as if to illustrate the veracity of his statement, and Donna can’t help but smile. Much to her relief, he smiles too, some of the awful tension between them dissolving.

“And what room are we in again?”

He shoots her a look. “For someone so smart, your memory is _ truly _frightful sometimes.”

“There’s no need to be mean, Chuck, just tell me the goddamn number.”

“3110,” he says, passing over the key. “It should be just about… here.”

Donna tries twice to put the key in, each time getting nothing for her efforts but a frustrating beeping noise. “Chuck, could you-”

“Allow me,” he says, plucking the card from her hand. He manages to get the door open, and smiles at her. “See? Third time’s the charm.”

“Thank you,” she says, and she knows it’s not just for opening the door.

He holds her gaze for just a second, giving her a brief nod. “You’re welcome.”

He pushes the door open, and they both walk in.


	8. Saturday, 8:31 PM

There’s a moment of silence as the door of their room swings shut behind them, leaving them in near-darkness.

“In hindsight,” Charles says, much too close to her in the dark, making her jump, “perhaps we didn’t think this through.”

She swats at him, and misses. “Don’t _ do _that.”

“You didn’t happen to see a light switch anywhere, did you?” he asks, his voice a little more subdued. “I know I said I do my best work in the dark, but…”

She smiles at the joke, glad he can’t see, but still steps away, unsure of exactly how they’re supposed to proceed when she hears ‘_only you’ _with every beat of her heart, but yelps a bit when Charles bumps into her. 

“Sorry,” he says, shifting around her. “Just trying to find… aha!”

The lights flicker on, and they blink at each other in the sudden light, before Charles’s face falls.

Donna turns to see what he’s looking at, and feels her own heart sink twice as fast.

“Well,” she says, after a moment. “That sure as hell doesn’t look like two double beds.”

“No,” Charles agrees, still perilously close in the narrow entryway of their room. “It doesn’t appear that way.”

“... Want to flip for it?” Donna asks, half-joking as she stares at the single king-sized bed in the middle of the room, inwardly kicking her feelings into a corner like dirty laundry. “I know I’ve got a quarter somewhere.”

Charles turns, and gives her a look as though she’s somehow lost the plot, looking her up and down. “...Where?”

She pulls a quarter out of her pocket, grinning at the look of amazement on his face. “Well where were you expecting me to pull it from?”

“I- um.”

“I told Max if it didn’t have pockets, he didn’t have a star,” she says, holding up the quarter.

“Ah.”

“He said it was one of the most reasonable requests he’s ever gotten from an actress.” She laughs. “Heads or tails, Chuck?”

“While I really have no preference, that is irrelevant. I shall of course take the armchair,” he says, nodding to an opulent if uncomfortable looking armchair by the window.

“What do you mean you’ll take the armchair?” she asks, baffled. “We shared a room last night, and it wasn’t a problem then.”

He gives her a pointed look. “That was _ last night_. And it was before… well.”

It’s apparently the closest they’re going to come to discussing what just happened in the elevator. 

“Seriously?”

He’s bright red, and mumbles an answer she doesn’t quite catch about ‘separate beds’.

“Fine, if that’s how you’re going to be, _ I’ll _take the chair.”

“I cannot in good conscience allow you to take the chair,” Charles protests. “Only a cad would do that. And-”

“And while you’re many things, you hope that’s not one of them?” Donna asks innocently, grinning at his baffled expression. “You need some new lines, Chuck.”

“Perhaps, but that does not solve the problem at hand.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Donna asks, tugging off his jacket and tossing it onto the bed. 

The baffled expression stays in place. “No.”

“We share the bed,” she says patiently, even as her heart does a few uncomfortable backflips at the idea.

“No!” Charles says, and then freezes, as if stunned by his own outburst. “No, you are a lady, and I- I’ve _already_ behaved like a cad tonight-”

“Oh please,” Donna cuts him off, impatient, “not this modesty nonsense again. We can be professional."

“Donna,” he pleads, and she can’t ignore the genuine flicker of regret in his voice as she goes over to where her suitcase has been left for her. “I refuse to take advantage of this- this-”

“Chuck,” she says, turning back to him. “Much as I’d love to spend the rest of the night arguing over this bed, it’s rather gigantic, and there’s only two of us, and we’ve got a _ long _day tomorrow, so I’d appreciate if we could just… get over it, and share the damn bed.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

“Besides,” she says, her voice a little softer, “I told you I trusted you, didn’t I? Well if you looked at the terms of the contract, you’ll find that my modesty falls under that subheading.”

“You still trust me,” he repeats. “Even after-”

“There is no ‘even after’,” she cuts him off. “I trust you. Full stop.”

“Oh.”

“Listen,” Hawk’s voice says, suddenly in Donna’s ear. “If you two are done being mushy, I’ve got a question for you, Donna.”

“Yeah, Hawkeye, what is it?”

“How exactly is it that I know you’re with Charles, but your tracker says you’re currently moving past the Lincoln memorial?”

Charles frowns, listening in. “Obviously you’re here.”

“Well, I... I told you I bumped into Flagg in the hallway,” she says dryly. “What did you think I did, blithered at him like an idiot? I’m a professional.”

“Damn right,” Hawkeye says in her ear, sounding impressed. “You planted your tracker on Flagg?”

“I did,” Donna says. “And clearly it worked.”

Charles squeezes her shoulder, looking a bit guilty, and she realizes it’s the first time he’s touched her willingly since the elevator. “That’s… that’s marvellous work, Donna. Truly.”

This makes her smile. “Thanks, Chuck. Now how about we order some real food and I can tell you about Flagg’s business dealings?”

“An excellent idea.”

“Oh, and by the way, Hawkeye, I don’t know if you were listening, but Margaret Houlihan tried to poach me today.”

“She’ll need a bigger butterfly net.”

“Perhaps she wasn’t poaching you at all,” Charles says. “I had heard her interests trended a certain way. Though the idea of the Lieutenant Colonel poaching you to eat on toast isn’t too far-fetched- it rather sounds like something she would enjoy.”

Donna stares at him for a second, and barely manages to suppress a giggle. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“Of you being eaten?” he asks. “Hardly.”

“I am, but only if there’s film,” Hawkeye says. “I take it you told her you weren’t interested?”

“I told her I’d be keeping my options open.”

“You would leave?” Charles asks, looking up from the room service menu, and for a second he looks like a teenager whose family is leaving him behind at boarding school, and it breaks her heart. “Leave m- the team?”

“Oh of course I wouldn’t,” she assures him. 

“But you said-”

“I said I’d be keeping my options open,” she says. “I didn’t say what those options were. The book of Donna, proverb one: know thy wording.”

“But…”

She smiles. “I like to finish what I start, you know. Not to mention that while I do admire her, she’s not exactly my type, and I’m not exactly hers.”

“I’d love to see you find out,” Hawkeye comments.

“I _ meant _that an art historian really has no business working for someone at the Pentagon, unless it’s as an interior decorator,” she says. “And really, I think only the Marines have an art history division.”

Charles still looks hurt at the thought of her leaving, but the conversation from the elevator is fresh in her mind. She takes a mental step back, because if ever there was a time to examine his motives, when he all but admitted- _ this way lies insanity, _ she thinks wryly, and firmly pushes it away.

“That reminds me,” Hawkeye says. “You two are some of the _ worst _ actors I’ve ever seen and believe me, I’ve seen some doozies! Ever see _ Mephisto Waltz _ ? Or _ Airplane _? Or any one of a dozen shows that flopped before they ever hit Broadway?”

“Is there a point to this critique, Kominsky?” Donna asks. 

“You’re supposed to be madly and passionately in _ love _ here!” Hawkeye says. “I haven’t seen you two kiss once!”

“We’re professionals, Hawkeye, not actors in a peep show.”

“And if you think that kissing someone is the only way to demonstrate passion _ or _love, I pity every one of your exes,” Charles says to Hawkeye, though his eyes are for some reason fixed on Donna. “Petty voyeur.”

“You can’t call me that!”

“Hawkeye,” she says tiredly. “If you’re done eavesdropping?”

“Tell us about Flagg first,” Hawk suggests. 

“I’ll tell _ you _ tomorrow, now fuck off. Or better still, I promise I’ll kiss Charles more if you _ go away_.”

“Well there’s no need to be _ rude _about it,” Hawkeye huffs. And then there’s a pause. “With tongue?”

“Oh go fuck yourself,” she mutters, exhausted, before taking off her earpiece and microphone and stuffing them under the cushion of the chair. “Ass.”

“He won’t be pleased about that,” Charles says, though he’s clearly trying not to smile.

“Do I look like I give a fuck about his feelings?”

“Well… no. You actually look as though the next person who crosses you will be getting stabbed through the eye.”

“Oh please,” she says dismissively. “Nobody does that.”

She glows with pride when Charles laughs, as he removes his own wires, setting them gingerly on the table. And then she has to turn away at the fond look he gives her, Odysseus returning to Ithaca in one longing, painful glance.

The words fall from her mouth. “Could you unzip me?”

His eyes bulge. “I beg your pardon?”

“The dress, Chuck.”

“Well yes, I- I know the dress, but-”

“Max will kill me if I tear it, and I can’t reach the zipper,” she explains patiently. “I just need you to unzip me.”

“Er… all right.”

“I told you I trusted you with my modesty,” she explains, trying not to laugh. 

“I know,” he says, and steps forward as she turns around, grabbing the tab of the zipper and pulling it down, sending a draft down her spine. “Donna?”

“Mm?” she asks, trying to hide the effect having him so close is. It would be so easy to turn around and kiss him- so easy and so hard and so _ ruinous_.

“Is this what you call a bodice-ripper?” he asks.

She laughs, unable to help herself. “You’re silly.”

“I er… never noticed your tattoo,” he murmurs, and she nearly jumps out of her skin as his finger brushes over the delicate spot behind her left ear. “What is it?”

“It’s a lantern,” she breathes, trying to hide how flustered she is. “Making bright the dark and all that. I was a Mawrter.”

She can feel the warmth of his breath on her skin, ruffling the stray curls that have already escaped the confines of her hairpins, feels the electricity of his touch, and then, he murmurs almost reverently, yet somehow sounding amused, “_Anassa kata.” _

Her knees go weak as he steps away, and she forgets how to speak for a second, her cheeks hot, her mind racing, because she is entirely too exposed, and yet there is such intimacy in this vulnerability, as if he has seen a truth in her that shines through.

“Your dress is undone, my dear,” he says.

“I- um- th-thank you?” she stutters, a little breathless, like she’s running back to the ballroom all over again (but this time she doesn’t think he can keep her from falling, it’s much too late). “I’ll just- um… be changing. Order food, would you?”

“Of course,” he says, and she closes the bathroom door quite firmly on any thoughts of Charles kissing her, of Charles brushing his lips over the tiny lantern inked into her skin-

“Quite enough of that,” she tells herself in the mirror. “You need to focus.”

_ Queen, descend! _he'd said to her; an invocation to a goddess.

The thought stays with her as she pulls the robe on over her slip, and washes the make-up from her face, the thought of Charles leaning in and kissing her properly, without interruptions, cupping her face in his hands as he says her name, oh so softly, murmured like a prayer-

She’s startled out of her entirely inappropriate romantic daydream when she knocks the hair dryer over. “Shit!”

“Donna?” Charles calls from the other side. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine, I’m fine. I’m just…” _ An idiot_, she thinks as she clears her throat. “I’m fine.”

“Well, the food has been ordered, so anytime you’re ready…”

With shaking hands, she ties the sash of her robe tightly, before opening the door. “I hope you ordered a lot, because I’m…”

She stops dead in her tracks, the words dying on her lips.

Charles is sitting at the table, his jacket long since abandoned though he’s still in his waistcoat, hands casually in his pockets, legs stretched out under the table, looking the most relaxed she’s ever seen him, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie hanging loose and undone around his neck, and-

Her eyes flicker to his throat, where his top button is undone, and the space between them is suddenly devoid of oxygen as she stares, and stares, her knees weak.

“Donna?” he asks, giving her a completely innocent look despite his dishevelment, and she realizes a second too late that she’s staring, hell, she’s practically _ drooling, _ because _ this _is the one thing that makes her entire soul sit up and beg for more.

“... hungry,” she says weakly.

All she can think of is the last time she saw him like this, utterly relaxed and disheveled, blue eyes watching her innocently over the rims of his glasses, and she clutches the doorframe, wondering if it would be too forward to walk over and pull him into a kiss with his own tie- after her legs start working again.

“Donna?” he asks again, watching her. “Are you alright?”

“I- um-” she stammers, not knowing where to look, because the rolled up sleeves, the rumpled shirt, it’s all so _ much_, and it’s like she’s been starving and suddenly stumbled onto a feast. Miraculously, she remembers how to form words, words that aren’t indecent. “When’s… the food getting here?”

“About half an hour or so,” Charles says, and the look of innocence has melted into one of concern, and melted her right along with it. “Donna are you alright? You look a little faint.”

He stands up, and she swears she can see the muscles of his forearms flex, and she thinks she really might faint, or beg, or do something truly unforgivable like kiss him. 

“Shower,” she says, and it’s the only word she can form. “Do I have time to shower?”

He stops in his tracks, momentarily confused, but then he nods. “I do believe so. Save me some hot water, will you?”

“Oh, um. Yes.”

And she quickly ducks back into the bathroom, locking the door with shaking fingers, before turning the water as cold as it will go.

**

She’s regained some of her composure (though she’s still shivering a bit from the cold water) by the time she opens the bathroom door again.

Charles has abandoned the tie altogether, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his waistcoat, looking as though he’s stepped out of another time, aside from the glorious purple anachronism of his chucks, and Donna barely manages the few steps it takes to get to the wobbly table, though she’s grateful when she sits down and he gives her a smile. 

“Feeling any better?” he asks kindly. 

“Yes,” she says, and tries for bravado. “Just a bit… dizzy.”

“Well relief is at hand,” he says, and the shy smile turns dazzling. 

She almost sighs in relief, because his effect on her has clearly gone unnoticed, but that _ smile _…

Her thoughts are mercifully interrupted by a knock on the door of the hotel room and a cry of “Room Service!”

“I’ve got it,” Charles says, jumping up. He returns a few minutes later with a covered tray that he sets down with a flourish, an entire feast awaiting them. He lifts up the lid. “Voila!”

“Cheeseburgers?” she asks, amused. 

“And fries. And milkshakes,” he says. “Do you mind?”

“Nobody should ever leave you unsupervised,” she tells him, nearly laughing. “This is a meal fit for a king. Or maybe _ the _king, say of rock and roll?”

Charles does laugh. “Time to dust off the blue suede shoes, I’d imagine. This is much better than caviar and pheasant any day.”

She laughs, sitting down and picking up a fry before swiping it through Charles’s chocolate milkshake and eating it, sighing in bliss. “Now this is real food.”

“What exactly are you doing?” he asks, mystified.

“Oh Chuck,” she says, putting a hand over her heart. “Oh, you poor deprived thing. Did no one ever teach you to dip fries in milkshakes?”

“No.” His mouth twitches into a smile. “Being with you has been quite the education, it seems.”

“Go on,” she says. “Try it.”

He does, carefully dipping one of the fries in his milkshake, and then taking a cautious bite. The skepticism melts away, into a stunned expression. “My God.”

“See?” she asks smugly. “Nirvana.”

“Why did no one ever teach me this?” Charles asks, reaching for another fry. “It truly lends credence to the saying ‘better than sex’- as if that isn’t an expansive list to begin with.”

“Forget sex. There’s an entire bonus tier of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs dedicated solely to fries dipped in chocolate milkshakes,” Donna agrees, picking up her burger. “It’s not exactly something you’d find in a five-star restaurant but it hits the spot.”

“To hell with a five-star restaurant,” Charles says around a mouthful of burger. Once he swallows, and wipes his face with a napkin, he turns on the TV. 

“Um, Charles,” she says, watching him flip through the channels, brow furrowed in concentration. “Weren’t we going to talk about the case?”

“What?” he asks. “Oh, yes, but the walls have ears, and I’d rather… go unnoticed. Ah! Perfect.”

He leaves the channel on a Tom and Jerry cartoon.

“You know Tom and Jerry?” Donna asks, baffled.

“I _ love _Tom and Jerry, Donna.” The tips of his ears turn pink as he grins sheepishly at her. “Call it a guilty pleasure.”

“Cartoons and junk food?” she asks.

He grins. “Rather ruins the stoic image, doesn’t it?”

“You’re unbelievable,” she says, affectionately rolling her eyes. “I mean _ really_.”

“Well, I’d hardly say that. You’re the one who bugged a CIA agent undetected tonight.”

“We are pretty awesome, aren’t we?” she asks, setting down her burger, and reaching for a fry, absentmindedly watching the TV- until her fingers brush against Charles’s, the two of them holding the same fry.

Charles gives her a smile, and she can’t help but smile back, even as she drops the fry like- well, like a hot potato.

“We are,” he says quietly, holding her gaze.

They smile at each other for a second, until the sound of dynamite exploding on the TV breaks the moment, and Donna grins. “I think if we can crack Flagg’s code, we may know the drop time and location for tomorrow.”

“How much do you remember of what you overheard?”

“All of it,” she confirms. “But what he said doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

“What did he say?” Charles asks, a fry forgotten to sink in his milkshake as he focuses on her. 

“He just said _ El Dia- _that’s Spanish, it means ‘day’. And ‘Jefferson’, and…” She frowns. “Something about ‘three kings’.”

“Well, Jefferson is easy enough,” he says. “It simply means the same location as yesterday- the Jefferson memorial. The three kings however… is most likely a reference to the magi?”

“_El Dia _…” she says, and then the pieces click into place. “Three Kings Day.”

“What?”

“Three Kings Day, it’s a holiday,” she explains, looking up. “I spent a few weeks in Mexico over Christmas a few years ago, and Three Kings Day is… it’s a big deal down there.”

“But what…” Charles looks mystified. “What could that signify?”

“Well it can’t be the date, because Three Kings Day is in January, so… the time of day?”

“Brilliant,” Charles says softly. And then the smile drops. “Unless of course you are about to inform me that the date shifts from year to year.”

“No,” she assures him. “It’s always the sixth of January.”

“Which means the drop should occur at… about 1:06 tomorrow afternoon, if we’ve got it right.”

“We _ are _good,” Donna says, grinning, before taking another bite of her burger.

“We make a good team,” Charles agrees, and then frowns. “I seem to be missing a fry.”

“It spun into your milkshake,” she says, trying not to laugh. “There were no survivors.”

“Damn.”

“Here,” she says, handing him a fry. “One fry in, one fry out. Can’t even tell the difference.”

“I can tell,” he grumbles, but accepts the fry anyway.

Donna is content to finish her meal, the cartoons playing in the background, until Charles awkwardly clears his throat, dipping another fry in his milkshake. “So you’ve… read Homer?”

She blinks. “Huh?”

“It’s just. Your joke. Earlier. Nobody. The… the _ Odyssey _?” He looks hopeful for a second, then sighs. “Never mind then.”

“No!” she blurts out, startling him, and feels her cheeks heat up. “I mean _ yes _ , I’ve read Homer. And other, _ better _ works.”

She watches his eyes light up in delighted astonishment. “How is it that I never knew this before?”

She shrugs. “You never asked before.”

He smiles, a smile that on a lesser man could be called a grin, and she’s struck again with the feeling that this quiet hotel room with silly cartoons and junk food, is an Ithaca all its own. “Do you have a favourite?”

“Oh Chuck, I can’t pick just one…” she trails off. “Though _ Herakles _ is good. And _ Medea_.”

“You know Euripides?” he asks, even more delighted.

She tosses a fry at him. “I said _ better works_, didn’t I? Euripides was implied!”

“‘Other works’ is a very broad statement!” he replies, tossing the fry back at her. “And it’s usually the ones who cannot tell Aeschylus from Achilles that use the phrase. It’s only natural that I should be curious!”

“Wanted to scope out whether I’m trying to impress you, you mean.”

He blushes. “I resent that accusation.”

“Well let me lay it out for you: I took quite a few classics courses in school, I adore Euripides, I can speak Latin _ and _ Ancient Greek, _ and _ I think the _ Odyssey _ is better than the _ Iliad _any day of the week, and twice on Sundays.”

He blinks, stunned, and then his smile returns, his voice quiet but frank. “You do impress me.”

It weakens her, _ ruins _her.

And then, he pulls out his reading glasses from the pocket of his waistcoat, suddenly looking very much like he ought to be in front of a class, teaching them the ancient hymns, instead of here looking for a muse to invoke.

“While I agree that the _ Odyssey _ is good,” he says, putting on his glasses, “I think your thesis that it’s better than the _ Iliad _ is flawed.”

“What?” she asks, baffled. “How?”

“For starters it is nigh impossible to compare the two,” he says, giving her a look over his glasses. “Entirely different genres. Surely as someone who attended Bryn Mawr, you should know this.”

“I do know that,” she says, raising an eyebrow, trying to ignore how the glasses are making her stomach flip. “Just like I know that Patroclus is the real hero of the _ Iliad_.”

“Hm.” He leans back in his chair. “That I can accept.”

“But not the _ Odyssey _being better?”

“I am a man of principle, and any work that can easily be summed up with the phrase ‘a fool’s errand’ is not one I care to delve into deeply.”

“And the Trojan War _ wasn’t _a fool’s errand?” she demands. 

“Of course it was, it was about the futility of _ war _ !” he says, frustrated. “Odysseus himself could have made it home _ much _ sooner had he not led a crew of _ buffoons_.”

“I don’t care about Odysseus or his ship of fools, I care about Penelope! _ She’s _ the reason it’s the better story.”

He gives her another look, quizzical, as though he’s studying her. “Explain.”

“Well…” Donna says, and then smiles. “Ever heard of this funny little Greek concept called _ metis _? Penelope had that. In spades.”

Charles gives her a small smile, as though he's just thought of some delightful secret. “Go on then.”


	9. Saturday, 11:42 PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is especially for Blue, for every reason I can think of (plus a few more besides) ♥

“... And  _ that _ ,” Charles concludes with a smile, leaning back in his chair, “is why I believe Theseus to be in love with Herakles.”

Donna applauds half-heartedly, yawning wide enough to swallow the Aegean sea. “That was a great thesis, Chuck. Full marks.”

“If only my professors at Harvard had agreed with you,” he says dryly. 

“How could they  _ not  _ think you’re right?”

He eyes her. “Because apparently to stick by someone in a moment of great crisis is… friendship. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more,” she repeats quietly, but smiles when he yawns, stretching. “I guess it’s late.”

He turns and looks, squinting at the glowing green of the digital clock on the nightstand. “Nearly midnight- good God, I’ve done nothing but ramble at you for the past  _ hour _ .”

“No, no, I like this…” she says, clearly trying not to laugh. “This… classics professor alter-ego. It’s endearing, Chuck, really.”

“I suppose I got… excited,” he says, and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t er- really have anyone to discuss the classics with.”

“And here I’d have thought your sister would’ve had a classical education.”

“Yes, well,” he says, “regrettably, there are only so many times you can discuss the work of Sappho before it starts to all sound the same. With you… it’s different.”

“Oh I could talk about Sappho if you really wanted me to,” she teases. “Bryn Mawr was  _ very  _ good for educating me in that respect.”

He blinks, because- “Really?”

She leans in. “I am  _ intimately  _ acquainted with Sappho, Chuck.”

Charles tries not to leap to conclusions - admittedly he’d suspected as much, but...

“But you’re right,” she says, cutting off his train of thought. “It  _ is  _ nice.”

“Is it?”

“Getting to talk to someone about Euripides without hearing the  _ same _ stupid jokes over and over again?” she asks. “Yeah, Chuck. It’s nice.”

“Oh I could make foolish jokes,” he assures her. “But never about Euripides. Diogenes, perhaps.”

“Behold,” Donna quotes in return, laughing. “I’ve brought you a man!”

“It rather took a lot of pluck, I thought.”

She starts laughing, nearly sliding off her chair as she giggles. 

“Oh God, Chuck,” she says, her voice low and warm with laughter, slumped in her chair. “Oh God, that shouldn’t be so funny.”

“If you’re looking for more jokes about Diogenes, don’t hold your breath,” he warns, which just sets her off laughing again, and he can’t help but grin too. “Come now, it’s really not  _ that  _ funny.”

“Maybe not,” she says, straightening in her chair, and wiping at her eyes, her cheeks still flushed pink from laughing. “But it  _ is  _ late, which makes everything funnier. So maybe we ought to go to bed?”

“Yes, I… I suppose so.”

He frowns, unsure of why he's so unsettled by the idea. It isn't even sharing the bed that bothers him (he trusts her not to take advantage, and he knows  _ he  _ certainly won't).

And then it hits him: he's having fun.

Being with Donna is enticing, it's engaging, but more than anything, it's the most fun he's had... probably in  _ years _ .

He doesn’t want this night to end.

Donna yawns again, shifting around in her chair. “And I still have to take out my fucking hair pins.”

“You didn’t take them out when you… er… showered?”

She gives him a blank look, and if he’s not mistaken, she’s pink in the face. “No.”

“Well, in that case, I can… take them out. For you. If you’d like.”

“Oh would you?” she asks, relieved. “You’re a lifesaver, Chuck, these pins are murder.”

“Well, we… we can’t have that. I would never… ever wish for you to be uncomfortable around me. If I can help it,” he says, and she looks at him like she knows he’s not just talking about hair pins.

It’s the closest he can manage to a real apology for the elevator, for loving her, for all of it. 

There’s a look on her face he can’t decipher, something caught between hope and regret, a bittersweet look that hurts him. 

“Charles,” she starts, oh so quietly, and he cuts her off.

“It’s alright, Donna,” he says softly, as he stands, turning away so he no longer has to look at the damage he’s done.

He walks over, and sits on the edge of the bed. He reaches over and flips on the lamp for something to do in the awkward silence of his own creation.

“Here… come sit with me, would you?” he asks, looking up at her at last, patting the bedspread beside him. “Please. If you’d like.”

“Okay.”

As she walks over, he stretches out his legs, and winces at a vicious twinge of pain across his left sole.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. “Chuck?”

“Damned shoes,” he says, and tries to smile. “They’re starting to hurt.”

“Yes, well…” she says, sitting down beside him. “That’s what happens when you don’t break them in properly.”

“That’s  _ hardly _ my fault,” he grumbles, but leans down to unlace them anyway, wincing in pain as he does at the twinge in his back. “Won’t take a moment.”

She’s silent for a second, and when he looks up from his shoes, she’s watching him, wide-eyed and uncertain. 

“Donna?”

She blinks. “Yes?”

“You’re staring.”

“Yes.” She’s riveted, watching his fingers deftly work at the knots in the laces, muscles in his wrists straining as he does. “I’m what?”

“You’re staring,” he says, focusing on a particularly stubborn knot, trying to hide a smile. “I cannot fathom what is so fascinating about a man untying his shoes.”

“Oh- I just- um.”

“There,” he says, and sighs a little, because while the ache in his foot has subsided, a persistent ache in his back has erupted into a flare of pain as he sits up, his hand moving to press into the pain on reflex. “Now to remove them.”

“Allow me,” she says, and when he looks up in surprise, she’s pink. “I mean… least I can do, right?”

“... Right.” He swings his foot up into her lap, and tries for an encouraging smile as she tugs off his left shoe, dropping it on the carpet with a dull thud, pulling off his sock too. “You’re a natural.”

“Of course. I’ve got some experience- oh Chuck,” she says, shaking her head as she examines the red indents across the top of his foot. “That looks like it hurts.”

“Just… twinges a little,” he says, wriggling a little as she keeps poking at it. “Donna, that’s- um-”

She gives him a mischievous look, and he tries to pull away but she’s too quick. She grabs his foot as he pulls back, and starts tickling him.

“Oh Donna, Donna, please- tickles,” he begs, trying to wriggle away, in between undignified giggles, and she’s laughing too. “Donna!”

“Chuck, hold  _ still _ ,” she scolds, in between fits of laughter. “How can I be expected to help if you won’t stop moving?”

“No more?” he asks, cautiously, as she releases his foot.

“Scout’s honor.”

“Very well…” Sensing a trap, he lifts his other foot into her lap, allowing her to wrestle his shoe and sock off and send them falling after their fellows.

“You’re a liar,” she says, teasingly, examining his feet. “These are  _ exactly  _ as big as the shoes make them look.”

“Oh, um, well,” he tries. “Perhaps I’m just modest.”

“Mm…” she says, lightly running a finger up one sole, and grinning when he squirms.

“Donna,” he protests, “you promised.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” she asks, eyes aglow. “I was never a scout.”

And then she’s grabbing onto his ankles, before setting to work mercilessly tickling his feet, laughing as he yelps, trying desperately to get away from the assault on his soles, and when he finally manages to get away, he ends up halfway turned around so that Donna is staring down at his face. “Aha! Now I’ve…”

But flushed with laughter as she is, and glorious above him, she stops talking, instead watching him giggle in an undignified heap, half in her lap, and the indignity should kill him, but it only makes him laugh harder.

Charles realizes belatedly that she’s staring, but it would be so foolish and so easy to prop himself up on an elbow and kiss her.

“Donna?” he asks. "Are you alright?"

She blinks, and for just a split second he sees the tenderness in her gaze. “F-Fine. You?”

“I…” He clears his throat. “Fine, thank you. I can do your hair- er, your hair pins now. If you’d like me to.”

Her eyes flicker to his hands, and she swallows, hard. “Okay.”

“Excellent.” He sits up, and she shifts on the bed so that she’s in front of him. 

The back of her neck is pink in the lamplight, her tattoo dark against her skin, and he wants nothing more than to kiss her there, to hear her laugh, to trace the delicate freckles across the back of her neck-

“Chuck?” Donna asks, turning a bit. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“Sorry.” He hesitates for just a second, and then sets himself to the task of removing Donna’s hair from its elaborate updo. He gently combs his fingers through her hair, pulling out the pins as he finds them. Donna's hair is warm and soft under his fingers, and it smells familiar in a way he can't identify.

He can’t help himself, brushing his fingers over the tiny lantern as he frees the hair pins, watching as more and more curls tumble down, listening to Donna hum absentmindedly, and it leaves an ache in his throat how she can trust him so wholeheartedly, when he still isn’t sure how he’s deserved it. 

There’s a small pile of pins on the bedspread when he’s finished and he can’t help but press a very gentle kiss to the back of Donna’s head, praying she doesn’t notice. “There.

She sighs sleepily, almost happily, leaning back in against his shoulder, and the cascade of curls against her neck is so strange-looking that it leaves him speechless, as he realizes he has never seen her with her hair down.

Her eyes flutter open, and oh hell, she’s beautiful. “What are you looking at, Chuck?”

“You,” he answers honestly. 

She stays there, nestled in against him, and then says, quietly, “I wish I could stay.”

“With the team?” he asks, cautiously.

“With you.” She gives him a searching look. “I feel safe with you.”

Charles blinks, and then has to blink back his emotions. “Donna…”

Then she smiles. “Ignore me, Chuck, I’m so tired I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Oh.” He’s quiet. “Then… perhaps we ought to go to bed.”

“To bed?” she repeats.

“To sleep,” he corrects, dropping the hair pins on the nightstand.

“Alright,” she says, and stands, making her way over to her suitcase. He too stands, waiting until she’s in the bathroom to undress, focusing on removing his waistcoat, though his fingers fumble with the buttons. 

He’s half-turned away, carefully unbuttoning his shirt when she comes back, and his hands go still, one button half undone, his fingers clumsy with anxiety that has crawled out of a deep pit, as chilling as the air on his skin.

Surely she won’t…?

“Come to bed, Chuck,” she says softly, and he forgets how to breathe, anxiety tightening around his throat like a noose because clearly she has  _ expectations. _

Even Donna.

“I don’t…” he mutters, going tense, his shoulders up around his ears. “I…”

“You need rest as much as I do,” she continues, and the noose goes slack, relief flooding in its stead, leaving him shaky.

He clears his throat, and tugs his shirt closed. “I ought to finish getting changed.”

He grabs his pajamas and ducks into the bathroom, still struggling with the residual panic, the smaller waves after the deluge.

But the words keep crashing over him,  _ Come to bed, Charles _ , not even Donna’s voice anymore, but a gentle French accent, and each time they do, he weakens.

He runs his hands under the cold water, bracing himself against the bathroom counter as he struggles to breathe, his chest still tight, feeling all the wrong sorts of giddy at what almost just happened.

When he’s managed to regain some measure of calm, he flips off the light and heads back into the room. There’s only the lamp burning now, Donna sprawled in an undignified and glorious heap on top of the bedclothes.

She props herself up on an elbow when he walks in. “Charles, is everything okay?”

“I- why do you ask?” 

“You were gone a while, and I... I got worried,” she says. “Did I… say something wrong?”

“No,” he says with a sigh.

“Because if I did-”

“It was… a misunderstanding,” he assures her. “I’m better now.”

“Are you?”

“I think so… Do you prefer the left or right side?” he asks quietly. 

“Left.”

He draws back the covers on the left side of the bed, before walking back to her side, leaning down. “C’mon Donna, upsy daisy.”

Then he gently gets his arms underneath her and lifts her off the bed in a bridal carry, her arms coming up to loop around his neck as he does, and he marvels at how paradoxically delicate and solid she is as he does, her head falling against his chest. 

He carries her as gently as he can around the side of the bed, and her eyes half-open, she gives him a sleepy smile. 

He leans in to set her down, but her arms wrap tighter. “Don’t let go.”

“Shh,” he says, his voice low and warm, “I’m right here.”

She lets go, reluctantly, allows him to pull the quilts up to her chin. He barely resists the urge to lean down and kiss her forehead, before turning off the lamp.

“No bedtime story?” she asks, faintly amused, though he hears a slight tremble in her voice as she asks.

“I’m afraid I… I don’t know any,” he confesses as he crawls in on his side of the bed.

She sounds surprised. “You don’t?”

“No.”

After a few silent minutes of staring at the ceiling, he turns onto his side so he can watch her in the dim cast by the glow of the streetlights seeping in around the curtains.

He thinks she’s asleep for a second, but when his eyes adjust to the dark, he can see that she’s worrying at her lip, clearly preoccupied as she stares at the ceiling.

He reaches through the veritable mountain of bedclothes, and when he takes her hand, he realizes she is trembling, the way he is.

“Donna?” he whispers. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispers back. “Are you?”

“Winchesters don’t get  _ scared _ ,” he says scathingly despite the obvious evidence to the contrary, and when she shoots a skeptical look his way, he almost smiles. “Of course, there have always been rumors I was switched in my cradle.”

“So you’re scared too.”

“Of course. Any man in his right mind would be.”

She smiles. “You don’t act like it.”

“It’s all bravado,” he tells her. “Though if you tell anyone, I shall deny it.”

This actually earns him a laugh, and the tension in her seems to melt away into the comfortable silence in their little pocket of bedclothes, and she shifts closer, turns so that they’re facing each other. 

“You don’t… strike me as the type to be scared of a man like Flagg.”

“Donna, it’s never been about Flagg.” He sighs. “God, don’t you see? It’s you. I’ve said it time and again, it’s  _ you _ .”

“Me.”

“The things you do… the way you are…”

“I can’t change how I am, Chuck,” she says, quietly. 

They’re both quiet for a second, and then he says, equally softly. “I wouldn’t dare ask.”

She clears her throat. “Me neither.”

The quiet is no longer uncomfortable, both of them breathing each other in.

Donna’s voice is still hushed, but hesitant. “Chuck… about before.”

He pauses, blinks. “Which before?”

“When you… were about to change. I said something that upset you.”

“Oh.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “You did nothing wrong, Donna.”

“But-”

“You did nothing wrong,” he says firmly. “It was merely a reminder of a different time. When I shared my bed with… someone else.”

She’s no longer in his arms, but he can still feel them lingering at a threshold, standing at the bridge of the Rubicon, waiting to cross. “Oh.”

“It’s only…” he takes a deep breath. “Most people I’ve known aren’t exactly interested in doing anything in a bed besides-”

“Besides making love?” she asks, a smile buried in her voice. “How… uncreative of them.”

“I’m not sure that’s a word. But anyway, when you asked me to come to bed...”

“Oh. I see.” She sighs, and then when her eyes open again, she’s watching him, can probably feel the fear radiating off him in waves. She squeezes his hand, reassuring. “It’s not what I meant, Chuck. That particular opinion… isn’t mine. And I take it it’s not yours either?”

“No,” he says, and holds his breath, expecting the worst with what he’ll say next. “I’m not exactly… interested in sex. At all. Really more the… opposite, actually. I mean, I’m not… I’m not  _ attracted _ to anyone in... that way.”

And just like that, with his halting explanation, the threshold has been crossed.

There’s a pause, during which Charles waits, his heart beating like the drum of a death march, and he can’t read Donna’s reaction, which makes it hard to breathe. How easily this illusion could all be shattered.

And then Donna says casually, “So... does that mean you’re asexual?”

The relief hits him, sharp and bright, and he nearly chokes on the lump rapidly forming in his throat. “You mean you understand what that means?”

“Well I’ll confess that I don’t understand it  _ perfectly _ , and I know there’s lots of… variables, but I…” she shifts slightly, clearly nervous, judging by the hesitation in her voice. “I sort of… kind of read up about asexuality.”

He’s thunderstruck. “You mean… you  _ knew _ ?”

“Well I didn’t-” She’s definitely flustered now, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth again. “I didn’t  _ know  _ exactly, and it wasn’t my place to  _ ask _ , but I… I know you, and I wondered. And I didn’t want to… to be  _ ignorant  _ if you were. You… you mean too much to me for that.”

“I… what?” he asks, her words sinking in. “I…”

“You mean too much to me,” she repeats, softly. “Every part of you, because you’re my colleague and my friend, and… and you matter, how can you not know this?”

“I do know,” he says around the lump in his throat. “I  _ do _ , Donna, I just hadn’t realized how much.”

“It’s a hell of a lot,” she says, and then clears her throat. “But just because I care about you, it… it doesn’t mean you have to tell me anything.”

“Yes, I do, and I  _ want _ to,” he says softly, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I am. I’m asexual.”

It isn’t the first time he’s said it out loud, and it won’t be the last, but the relief hits him again, sharp and potent, and he could get drunk on this feeling. 

She squeezes his hand again but doesn't say a word, so he continues. 

“And it’s-” He swallows. “You… understand?”

“I do,” she says. “And what I don’t, I’m willing to learn. Trust me on that, okay?”

“I-” It’s too many revelations in too short a timespan and it makes his head spin. “I don’t know what to say.”

It’s the truth.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says. “Unless you want to.”

“Thank you,” he says at last, feeling nothing but relief and gratitude, and something inexplicably more that blooms in his heart and rushes outward, spreading warmth to every inch of him. “God, Donna,  _ thank you _ .”

“Why are you thanking me?” she asks, confused. 

“Because you…” He shakes his head, overwhelmed. “You listened. And you  _ try _ , and you have no idea how rare that is. So… thank you.”

“No,” she says at last. “Thank  _ you  _ for telling me… and for trusting me.”

“Donna,” he says softly. “I would trust you with my life.”

“Yes but that's  _ different _ ,” she tries. 

“Perhaps,” he circles his thumb over her palm, “but perhaps not. This is  _ part  _ of my life… and I entrust it  _ all  _ to you.”

He closes her fingers over her palm, his life safe in her hands. 

“Thank you, Chuck,” she says, her voice wobbly with emotion, and he doesn't hesitate, pulling her in close. 

“Quite alright,” he murmurs, stroking her hair. 

The feeling returns, the inexplicable warmth that encircles both of them, and it's a night that he hopes will never end. 

“Chuck?” she asks after a few minutes. 

“Yes?”

“I- I'm so glad I know you.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual, believe me.” 

It takes a few more beats, in which Charles summons up all of his courage to give in gracefully. “Donna, after this case is over, would you want to get dinner with me?”

The only answer is a soft exhale, and after a heart-stopping moment of silence, Charles can't help but chuckle when he realizes Donna is asleep. 

He presses a kiss to her forehead and pulls the quilt over her shoulder. “Good night, Donna.”


	10. Sunday, 6:01 AM

Sunday morning arrives with an arm wrapped snugly around Donna’s waist and a warm body at her back, utterly serene in its security. 

The arm across her waist is unfamiliar, but the scent isn’t, wrapping itself around her brain with each breath like an old faded quilt, coffee and cinnamon. In her half-asleep brain, it’s familiar but the name attached to it is just out of reach.

All she knows is it’s a flash of deep blue, and then gone, but she knows him even in her dreams. 

She’d know him anywhere.

Their room is peaceful, the arm around her waist enough to quell any doubt: she is warm and cozy and  _ safe _ , because this is Charles-

Her eyes open in confusion for a second.

_ Charles? _

She glances over her shoulder to find him still asleep, his mouth half open, looking so much younger in sleep, the daily creases of worry (most of which she’s caused) smoothed out by relaxation. Her heart bleeds for love of him, and he is  _ beautiful _ in the early-morning light.

And though something urgent is tugging at the fringes of her brain, she is perfectly content to snuggle back in, closing her eyes against the anxiety because it’s a Sunday like any other she’s dreamed of, just her and Charles with nowhere to be.

_ If only, _ she thinks to herself,  _ if only  _ every  _ Sunday could be like this. _

Her eyes snap open a second later, her breath catching in her throat, awake and painfully aware.

_ Chuck _ .

The sun is starting to shine around the edges of the curtains, and this is most definitely not like any other Sunday.

It would be so easy to just turn over and go back to sleep, and pretend like this is normal, to pretend that this is something that happens, that this is something she has earned when she so clearly hasn’t.

She lies there for a second, wrestling with the obvious dilemma, before trying to extricate herself from Charles’s grasp. 

But as she tries to slip away, his arm tightens around her waist, and he makes a sleepy noise of protest. “Don’t go,” he mumbles.

“Chuck,” she says gently, “you’re dreaming.”

“No, ‘m not,” he says, nuzzling into her hair. “Stay.”

She has to hide her smile. “If you want.”

His response is another sleepy sigh that ruffles her hair.

It really isn’t painful to give in, to snuggle back in as close as possible, tug the quilt back up over both of them, and let her heavy eyelids sink closed again. She matches his breathing, keeping with the steady tempo of his heartbeat in his chest, and decides that she could do this waltz forever, not an unsteady poolside dance, not the grace of a ballroom, but this quiet dance the two of them have been doing for years.

It ends abruptly as the alarm on her phone starts blaring, Charles jolting awake behind her, his arm tightening on instinct around her waist.

And then there’s a pause, after which he sounds acutely embarrassed, asking, “... Donna?”

She cringes, because this has gone from endearing to excruciating, her own embarrassment flooding through her. “Yes?”

“Were we-”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He seems unsure of what to do with this information, and his breath is still warm on her neck, making her shiver. “What, er- what time is it?”

“Just after six,” she says, trying to sound casual, ignoring the flush of her cheeks and the reassuring weight of his arm that he still hasn’t moved. She shifts onto her back, turning her head to look at him.

Only when she does, his face is  _ right  _ there, as pink as hers, eyes as bright as in her dreams, and it is both so novel and so familiar all at once that she forgets how to breathe.

“H-Hi,” she manages, and tries for a smile.

“Hi,” he says, clearly surprised, but after a second, he returns the smile.

For a second there is calm.

“I suppose we ought to get ready,” he says quietly, still watching her face, as if he’s hoping she’ll object.

“I suppose,” she agrees. “You think Hawkeye would believe me if I called in sick?”

He gives her an amused look. “I somehow don’t think so, no.”

“Fuck,” she mutters, making him laugh. She moves to pull away, but stops. “Um, Chuck?”

He looks hopeful. “Yes?”

“Your arm,” she says, grinning. “You’re squishing me.”

“Oh?” He blinks, and then realizes, pulling away from her like she’s a lit match. “Oh! Er. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, Chuck, really, it was… nice.” She cringes. “Forget it. You can have the bathroom first, if you’d like.”

“Alright. Thank you.” He pushes back the quilt and sits up, as Donna props herself up on an elbow, and even with the awkwardness, she still feels as though she’s stumbled onto a sort of hidden civilization, a tiny pocket of domesticity.

“Charles, wait, hang on,” she says as he tries to move to his own side of the bed, reaching out and grabbing his hand to stop him. “About last night...”

He turns around, his eyes wide. “What?”

“I…” she starts, not understanding the look he’s giving her, because she is sitting here in her pyjamas, bearing a striking resemblance to Medusa thanks to her bedhead, but there is tenderness in his gaze all the same as he watches her. “Thank you.”

It’s all she can think to say, however pitifully inadequate, but all the same, he doesn’t pull away, just looks down at their linked hands like he’s been given an unexpected gift.

He raises an eyebrow, but all he does is turn her palm over and brush his thumb over her lifeline, the way he’d done at the motel, and smiles at her shyly. “Thank  _ you _ .”

She’s still waiting to hear what he’s thanking her for, but he’s already let go of her, getting up and moving, climbing off the bed with more dignity than anyone should be able to, leaving her to gather her thoughts the way he gathers up his clothing.

She’s sure doesn’t breathe properly until the bathroom door clicks shut, and then she flops backwards onto the bed, covering her face with her hands, because she can still feel the gentle pressure of his thumb brushing across her palm, the weight of his arm across her waist, the feeling of safety.

And the bittersweet halting confessions in tandem that twist through her brain like a half-forgotten melody.

The whispered words in the darkness,  _ I’m asexual _ , and how could she not love a man who lays himself bare time and again for her and  _ only  _ her?

_ Only you _ , she thinks, looking through her fingers at the bathroom door, trying to ignore the weight in her chest at the thought.  _ Only  _ you,  _ Chuck _ .

It takes a few minutes before she realizes her eyes are hazy from tears, and the ache in her face is from grinning like an idiot, and every beat of  _ her _ heart is knowledge.

And if he can be so easily vulnerable with her, maybe, just  _ maybe _ , she can admit the truth someday.

She hears the sudden spray of the shower turning on. Then, though it’s muffled through the wall, inexplicably, wonderfully, instead of whistling opera or something classical like he usually does, she hears the unthinkable:  _ Charles is singing. _

She’s never heard him sing before, but it’s clear and strong like a hymn. 

_ “People say in Boston, even beans do it…” _

She sits up, clutching a pillow to her chest like a lovesick teenager, savouring the sound even as she gets up to get ready.

She opens the curtains, letting the early-morning light wash over her, delighting in the small secret knowledge of this, of  _ them _ .

It sticks with her, a small fire burning behind her rib cage, even as she’s tugging on a new sundress, even as she’s brushing her hair, even as her fingers brush over the lantern tattoo.

Until she retrieves her discarded wire from where she’d stuffed it the previous night, and realization hits like an unexpected slap across the face just as she picks it up.

“What am I  _ doing _ ?” she whispers to herself, horrified, sinking to her knees in front of the chair.

Is she really about to jeopardize their entire friendship, two entire years of her life, because of feelings he may or may not have?

Because of feelings that may be as manufactured as their romantic relationship is?

She sits there for a second, clutching the wire, because she’d swear on a first edition of Pope’s  _ Odyssey _ that these feelings are  _ real _ , but with the very obvious evidence to the contrary in her shaking hands…

She hears the shower turn off, and takes a deep breath, standing back up, and setting the wire on the nightstand.

By the time Charles emerges from the bathroom, she’s regained her composure, and is sitting on the edge of the bed, cracking her knuckles. 

“That is a horrid habit you know,” Charles remarks, rubbing a towel over his head. “Get arthritis that way.”

“That’s a myth,” she says absentmindedly in return. “Are you almost ready?”

“Yes, just need to comb my hair. So it should take oh, about…” He checks his watch. “Ten seconds. Sit tight.”

“Okay.”

He stands in front of the mirror, combing his hair, but frowns when he meets her eye in the mirror. “You’re very quiet this morning. Is everything alright?”

“It’s fine, Chuck,” she says, watching him, trying to keep her adoration off her face at the casual flick of his wrist with the comb, the way he lifts his chin, all the little things she’s never noticed until now.

(All of the things she’s not allowed to notice, no matter how endearing they are.)

He’s whistling, the same tune he was singing in the shower, as he finishes up, tucking his comb in his shirt pocket before turning to her. “Shall we?”

“Certainly,” she says, standing up and smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt.

He looks at her absentmindedly, then frowns. “Donna?”

“What?”

“Shouldn’t you be wearing something… er… warmer?”

“Warmer?”

“Yes,  _ warmer _ . You’ll be cold if you go out in just that.”

“Since when did my mother return from Austria?” she teases. “I  _ can  _ look after myself, you know.”

“You say that as if I mind.”

“What?”

“I said, you say that as if I  _ mind _ looking after you- on the rare occasion you allow it.”

“Oh.”

He shakes his head, turning a faint shade of pink around the edges. As if to distract himself, he starts rummaging in his bag, before passing over a crimson pullover. “Here. Please try and keep this clean.”

“Your sweater?” she asks, holding it.

He shrugs. “It should at least… keep you from catching your death out there.”

“Thanks. I guess you really took ‘doesn’t need looking after’ as a challenge, huh?” she says half-heartedly, tugging the sweater over her head. It’s cozy and soft, and the lining smells like Charles- and it weakens her when she realizes it’s his Harvard sweater.

“Sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is accepting their help,” he says softly, as she holds up her hands, covered by the too-long sleeves. “Need a hand?”

“If there’s a point you’re trying to make…” she says, pointedly rolling them up herself, though he smiles fondly as he watches her.

“It suits you,” he says quietly.

“Th-Thanks. Um. Breakfast?”

“Breakfast,” he agrees.


	11. Sunday, 6:26 AM

They meet Hawkeye and BJ at a greasy spoon called Rosie’s, a few blocks away from the hotel. 

“Good morning, you two,” Hawkeye says, shifting to let Charles into the booth beside him as Donna slides in next to BJ, the cracked vinyl of the seats wheezing beneath them. And then he grins, waggling his eyebrows, “I _ do _hope you two behaved yourselves last night.”

“Or at least that you got some sleep,” BJ cuts in, looking between them. “You look exhausted.”

“Yes, Hunnicutt, strategy meetings at ungodly hours do not leave a person with much time to put their face on.”

“Besides,” Donna saws, with a jaw-cracking yawn. “Charles was a perfect gentleman.”

“That’s just disappointing,” Hawkeye mutters. “Well?”

“Well what?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Anything to report?” Hawkeye asks.

“About what?” she asks, grinning. “BJ, would you be a darling and pass me a menu?”

“Sure thing.”

Hawkeye gives her a look. “What do you _ think?” _

“Well, I can safely report that Charles and I have very differing opinions about the works of Homer, but other than that-”

“Do you have anything to report about the case?” Hawkeye cuts her off, impatiently.

“Well… ooh.” She looks down at the menu, ignoring Hawkeye as she scans the options. “Let’s see, pancakes, eggs… what do you fancy, Chuck?”

He sounds amused, at least. “I don’t know. Did you have a particular craving?”

“I was thinking pancakes… oh by the way, Hawkeye?” Donna looks up over the top of her menu to find Hawk practically seething. “Flagg’s meeting his buyer at the Jefferson Memorial today at about… one-oh-six this afternoon. You’re welcome.”

There’s a beat of silence, during which Donna sincerely wishes she had a camera to capture the look on Hawkeye’s face.

And then he grins. “I knew you were more than just a pretty face.”

“Little slow on the uptake, are we Pierce?” Charles asks, pulling out his glasses to look at the menu. 

“That’s amazing,” BJ says, shaking his head. “But how…?”

“Flagg should really know by now that an open hallway doesn’t count as a secure location,” Donna says with a grin. “Some CIA agent _ he _is. Still, it made my job easier.”

“Alright, that’s… that’s good work,” Hawkeye admits, as the waitress comes over with a pot of coffee. 

"Good?" Charles snorts. "Hardly fair to damn Donna's sleuthing with faint praise. It was brilliant."

"Though we do need to talk about you deciding to fly solo,” BJ says rationally. “No going rogue, remember?”

“Which reminds me,” Hawk says, pointing a menacing finger at Donna, somehow managing to miss BJ spooning almost the entire bowl of sugar in his coffee. “The next time you get the urge to take your earpiece off, I’m gonna put it back on. With _ staples_.”

"Perhaps she was sick of the innuendo, Pierce. I know I was.”

Hawkeye is about to respond but takes a sip of his coffee instead, making BJ grin as he chokes. And then he considers it, and takes another sip with a shrug.

“That being said,” BJ says, ignoring Hawk’s theatrics, “It’s good to know where we’re at.”

“Excellent, all of today’s business conducted in about… oh, ten minutes,” Charles mutters, shifting in the tiny booth to stretch out his legs, accidentally bumping Donna in the process.

The warmth of his leg, pressed against hers for only a second sends a jolt through her that would rival lightning, and she has to pull away.

She feels guilty a second later, as a hurt expression flashes across his face.

Hawkeye and BJ are ignoring this interplay, focusing on the menu and debating on what to get, and Charles leans in over the table. "Are we... alright?"

"We're fine," she tells him, the heat of a blush creeping up her neck, and she's sure if she meets his eye now, it will all come spilling out of her. “But-”

“But awkwardness is to be expected the morning after?” he asks with a straight face, and she nearly chokes on air.

The waitress returns, mercifully saving Donna from herself. "Are we ready to order?"

Donna pats Charles's knee, awkwardly, and feels a stab of hurt of her own when he flinches.

“French toast for me,” Hawkeye says with a grin. “Extra powdered sugar, light on the eggs, and on actual nutritional value, thanks."

“Bacon and eggs,” BJ says, sliding the menu over. "Heavy on the eggs."

The waitress turns to Donna, expectant. “And you, ma’am?”

“Oh, um…” Donna turns from watching Charles. “Blueberry pancakes.”

"You owe me five bucks," Hawkeye mumbles to BJ.

"Buy your coffee and we'll call it even?"

“Deal.”

"And you sir?"

“Oh, I’ll just have the toast.”

“Toast…?”

“Yes, toast. As in bread that has been toasted? Butter on the side, please. And an extra cup of coffee, if you would be so kind?”

Donna turns to look at him, incredulous. "You can’t just eat _ toast_, Chuck.”

“I… don’t find myself to be especially hungry,” he says. 

Donna frowns, but the waitress just nods. "I'll get those orders right in."

"_Donna _," he says in exasperation, though she sees his mouth twitch with the aborted beginning of a smile, "I'm hardly going to waste away. Besides, you and I ate like kings last night.”

“True,” she allows. “But it’s going to be a long day, and I just…”

“My mom always said breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Hawkeye murmurs into his coffee mug.

“Wise woman,” BJ says.

“She always said two things: never argue with crazy people, and always eat your breakfast in case you get run over and have to go to the hospital, because hospital food is terrible.” Hawkeye waits a beat. “And she would know.”

Donna elects to sip her coffee instead of answering, and a glance at Charles over the rim of her mug shows he’s doing much the same. As she’s watching him, he turns to look at her, and she has to avert her gaze, cheeks burning. 

How much more obvious can she be?

“Um,” she says, trying for a distraction. “Hawkeye, are there any changes in strategy for today?”

“Changes in strategy?” Hawkeye asks, blankly, looking between them. “Why? The one you’re doing is working so well.”

“And which strategy is that?” Charles asks, looking up.

“_Pretending_,” Hawkeye says, putting an ironic emphasis on the word, “to be in love. Look, Charles, I know it’s early but you’re usually smarter than this.”

“It should be easy,” BJ comments.

“And what exactly is _ that _ supposed to mean?” Charles asks before Donna can, and when she glances at him out of the corner of her eye, he’s bright red.

“Easy, Charles. I just meant you did such a good job yesterday…” BJ trails off. 

“You even fooled Margaret, and that’s no easy thing.”

Charles’s frown deepens. “Fooled Margaret? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Hawkeye assumes the look of someone who’s picked up a rock only to discover it was a wasp’s nest and starts backtracking. “I mean-”

“What he means,” Donna says hotly, “is that he was listening in on my conversation with the lieutenant colonel in the ladies’.”

“Yeah, Donna, that’s what we in the business like to call ‘doing my job’.”

“Not counting the five or so minutes he missed getting a sandwich,” BJ says, rolling his eyes. 

“I still don’t understand.”

“Well the gist of it, Charles, is Margaret seems to think that you’re in love with Donna here.”

“And did she think it was reciprocated?” Charles asks, his voice calm, but Donna almost panics at the note of hope in his voice.

“I dunno, but she said-”

“Oh shit!” Donna says loudly, as she knocks the syrup over. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Charles says, already dabbing at the stain with a napkin. 

“All I’m saying,” BJ says, looking between them, “is that she was convinced by your little act.”

“Oh.” Charles’s hand stills, and Donna doesn’t dare meet his eye. “I see.”

“To be fair, you were even starting to fool _ me_, and I’m in on it.”

“But for God’s sake, can you please kiss?” Hawkeye says, smacking a palm on the table. 

“What, right now?” Donna asks without thinking. 

“Yes,” Hawkeye deadpans, more sarcastic than necessary. “Just jump across the table and go at it, you crazy kids. And slip him a little tongue while you’re at it, or I’ll get bored. Of _ course _not right now.”

“If that is an official change in strategy,” Charles says, his voice measured, “then it is noted.”

Donna is in agony. How is she supposed to kiss him - or vice versa - if they can barely look at each other?

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” she asks, as the waitress walks back over with overflowing plates. “I don’t want… to make anything… awkward.”

“Donna, if this isn’t something you’re comfortable with any longer, we can forget the whole idea,” Charles assures her, though his cheeks are still pink as he rubs at the syrup stain.

“Oh don’t be silly,” she says, feeling something crack. “We can’t back out now, I just…”

_ I just want you to look at me again. _

“As noble as this is of both of you,” Hawkeye says, “all I want is for you two to make like chickens and get the peck outta here. Or at least outta each other.”

“Don’t ask for much, do you Pierce?” Charles asks dryly, as the waitress returns with Donna’s pancakes. 

“I’m easy,” Hawkeye says and BJ snorts into his coffee. 

“Well, we all knew that, dear,” Donna tells him.

“Keep your wires on, I want to know the second anything goes sideways- I don’t think it will, but better safe than sorry,” BJ says, once he’s through wiping coffee from his face. 

“Of course.”

“_That’s _what you called us here to discuss at this ungodly hour of the morning?” Charles demands, ignoring his food. “You could have phoned that in!”

“How dare you, sir! I have never in my life phoned it in!”

“I have a better question,” Donna says, holding up a placating hand. “Are we getting paid? I forgot to ask earlier.”

“We’re getting publicity,” BJ responds tiredly.

“Publicity doesn’t keep the lights on,” Charles retorts, passing over the syrup jug without being asked.

“We _ know _that, Charles, but we don’t exactly have a lot of say in the matter. This one comes from higher up.”

“I don’t care if Moses brought it down on stone tablets from Mount Fucking Sinai!” Donna says, frustrated. “I have a mouth to feed- mine.”

“Last I checked, we’ve got other sources of income, Donna, _ especially _you. I’d say you’re in the best position if the agency sinks. A lifeboat by the name of Margaret Houlihan ring any bells?”

“Oh go fuck an iceberg,” she mutters, pouring syrup over her pancakes. “I didn’t _ ask_-”

“She didn’t ask to be head-hunted, Pierce, and being angry with her for being good at her job is hardly fair,” Charles cuts in. “Besides which, the agency isn’t exactly about to shutter its doors, so cease with the dramatics.”

“Look, both of you,” BJ cuts in, annoyed. “Can you shut up and eat your breakfast before it gets cold?”

“Sure,” Hawkeye says, digging into his French toast.

“Fine.”

Donna cuts into her pancakes, distracted.

“Donna… Honey?”

Her head shoots up as she whirls to look at Charles. “What?”

“I just- er- was wondering if you could pass the… the honey? For my toast?” Charles asks, and her cheeks flame hot.

“Oh. Sure.” She hands over the plastic bear and buries herself in her pancakes, radioactive with shame.

“There is too much egg in this,” Hawkeye pronounces, before stealing a piece of BJ’s bacon. “Thanks, Beej.”

“You’re welcome,” BJ says, stabbing a piece of French toast from Hawkeye’s plate in exchange.

“How are the pancakes?” Charles asks.

“Pretty good.” She hasn’t tasted a bite. “Want to try?”

“Thank you, that would… be nice,” Charles says, and she passes over a forkful, very much conscious of the fact that his mouth is where hers was only seconds ago, and she’s supposed to _ kiss _him, and the fork wobbles in her grasp. He returns it to her. “There you are.”

“You know, I gotta say,” BJ says, staring at them, “as fun as it is to play Spy vs. Spy and deal with traitors and the like, I think I prefer the black market antiques. They don’t usually shoot back.”

“Hear, hear,” Donna says tiredly.

“Ah yes, the good old days,” Hawkeye says, grinning. “Remember Cairo?”

“Sorry, Hawkeye,” Donna says, leaning back in the booth. “Before my time.”

“A shame too, because the sight of Charles chasing down a guy selling fake canopic jars is still one of the best moments I’ve had working here. A true classic.”

“What?”

“You’ve never heard this?” Hawkeye asks, surprised, and then he grins. “Oh your blessed virgin ears… and _ I _get to defile them.”

“I did not _ chase him down_,” Charles says. “They’re exaggerating.”

“Charles, you tackled him in an open-air market!” BJ says, laughing. 

“I think I need to hear this story,” Donna says, settling back in the booth. 

“I hardly think that’s wise.”

“And in the end, Charles wasn’t even upset that he had dust and shit all over him,” Hawkeye says, grinning. “He was too mad about the shoddy craftsmanship on the canopic jars. Started shouting at the dealer, completely ignoring the dates stuck to his head!”

“Oh come now, Pierce, if you’re going to insist on telling this story, at least tell it _ properly_. You’re embarrassing me.”

“Fine,” Hawkeye says. “_You _tell it then.”

“I believe I will. Set the record straight… as it were,” he says, eyeing Donna.

“As it were,” she agrees softly, watching him. 

He’s animated in his retelling of a well-worn and beloved story, and while BJ and Hawkeye laugh in all the right places, she’s distracted, doodling him on the corner of a napkin tucked under her plate with a pen she suspects the waitress left behind.

“... believe me,” Charles is saying, “the loss of that pathetic dealer was hardly humanity’s loss- he was just another rich white man intent on taking advantage of tourists! And it’s _ hardly _my fault he ran!”

“So you chased him?” Donna prompts.

“Yes,” he admits. “I was faster then. Besides, I _ might _ have been lenient if the craftsmanship on the fake jars hadn’t been quite so terrible. Any Egyptian worth his mummification salt wouldn’t _ dare _ be caught putting his internal organs in them!”

“And you tackled him,” BJ says. “Right into a fruit stall, if I remember correctly.”

“Those are always the first things people crash into in movies,” Hawkeye comments. 

“They were bad dates too,” Charles says with a scowl. “You can _ hardly _ blame me for being irate.”

It’s then that Donna notices that in her absentminded doodling, she’s trailed her sleeve through the maple syrup she’d spilled earlier, and swears quietly to herself, lost in the applause of Hawkeye and BJ at what must be the story’s conclusion, and reaches for a napkin.

“Here, allow me,” Charles says, reaching over to help, and before she can protest, he’s picked up the one she’s been doodling on. “This ought to- oh.”

Donna’s cheeks flame hot again, as they both look at the doodle of Charles as…

“Indiana Jones?” he asks, amused.

“I… um. Yes?”

“This is quite a wonderful likeness, Donna,” he assures her. “Do you mind if I keep it?”

“Only if you don’t mind that I ruined your sweater,” she replies weakly, as he tucks the napkin into his shirt pocket, along with her dignity.

He clucks a bit as he dabs at the stain, “My dear, nothing is ruined.”

This is more reassuring than it has any right to be, especially since he’s giving her a look of warm concern over his glasses.

“No football tackles then?” she asks, weakly. 

“It’s just a stain,” he assures her. “Something easily mended, believe me.”

“As cute as this is,” Hawkeye says, bored, cutting into their moment. “You forgot the best part of the story.”

“And which part is that?”

“Tell Donna here what you did with the jar you kept.”

Donna raises an eyebrow at him, as he gives her a sheepish grin. “It’s on my kitchen counter… full of Oreos at the moment, I believe.”

“You use it as a _ cookie _jar?” she asks.

“Yes.” Donna and Charles share a smile, though he’s bright red, and things could almost be normal again, as the waitress brings the bill over. 

“You’re quite the adventurer, aren’t you?” she asks. 

He gives her a grave look. “A regular Indiana, I’d say.”

After a beat, they both start laughing, but she still freezes when he brushes his fingers against her cheek.

“Sorry,” he murmurs when he sees that she’s staring, and God, he’s so close- “I just- Maple syrup.”

“Huh?”

“You had…” He’s turning pink. “You had maple syrup on your cheek.”

“Well, let’s leave these crazy kids alone, Beej,” Hawkeye says, tossing money down on the table. “Let us out, would you?”

Donna stands, letting BJ out, as Charles does the same for Hawkeye, leaving the two of them standing beside the booth, staring at each other, too close for comfort and yet not nearly close enough.

“Hey Hawkeye,” she says, because she has to turn away from the too-bright blue eyes. 

“Yeah?” he asks, stopping in the doorway.

“Any final advice?”

Hawkeye looks between them, and for the first time all day, she can’t read the look on his face. “Be careful.”

“As if we’d be anything else,” Charles mutters once Hawkeye is gone.

The weight of everything is hanging over them again, before they both start talking. “Charles, I-”

“I’m sorry if I-”

There’s a pause, and then they both crack up, overcome with nerves and hilarity all at once. After a few seconds of undignified giggling, the tension has lessened slightly at least, and Donna tries for a smile. “Well.”

“Well,” Charles repeats, smiling back at her, almost shyly. “I suppose we’d best head back.”

“Good idea. Do you think we can keep ourselves out of trouble the next few hours, Mr. Ogden?” she asks, heading for the door.

“I’d say so,” he replies, as he follows her. “But unfortunately the thing about trouble is that _ you_, my dear, have a tendency to go looking for trouble before it can find us.”

“One of my many charms.”

“One of the more… dangerous ones, yes. Mrs. Ogden.” It’s said simply, without challenge, but pierces her all the same, leaving her to duck her head, flustered. 

“Back to the hotel then,” she says as he holds open the door. “Unless you can think of anywhere else to go?”

“No,” he says, as they walk out into the fresh air. “Though I wouldn’t mind stopping in the lobby to grab the Sunday _ Post_.”

“Oh? Looking at the society column? The financial section?”

“No, the advice column,” he deadpans. “I want to see if I’m a thoughtful wife.”

She laughs, looping her arm through his, firmly shoving back any feelings of tenderness lurking just out of sight. 

Once they’re walking back towards the hotel, she clears her throat, “I’m… sorry if I haven’t been convincing enough, Chuck.”

“How do you mean?” he asks, confused. 

“I was thinking about what Margaret said… about how _ you’ve _convinced her that it wasn’t an act, but I hadn’t, and I’m sorry if I haven’t been convincing in… pretending about my feelings for you.”

Pretending about her feelings? It’s easier to pretend she doesn’t have them at this point.

“No!” It’s an abrupt protest, and it’s his turn to blush when she gives him an incredulous look. “I mean... you’re doing a wonderful job.”

“But Hawkeye said-”

“I don’t care,” Charles cuts her off gently. “I don’t care what Pierce said. I don’t care what Margaret Houlihan said. I don’t care what the damn ice cream man has to say about it. It’s between you and me, you understand? And I… I happen to find you incredibly convincing.”

“What?”

“In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d think…”

“If you didn’t know better you’d think…?” Donna repeats, hoping he’ll finish the sentence.

“I find you incredibly convincing,” he says again, softer this time, and smiles. “As long as my own performance has not been lacking?”

“You’re a marvellous actor,” she assures him. “And you’ve been terrific at keeping up the act.”

“Keeping up the act?” He gives her a puzzled look, and she has to backtrack immediately, tripping over her words.

“Oh, I- fuck, Charles, I just mean, even… even when we’re alone- if I wasn’t in on it, I would definitely think you loved me.” She tries to smile. 

“Yes…” he says quietly, watching her. “I… I see what you mean.”

“Though I suppose you had time for it,” she says, trying to change the subject, “all those years of practice with the Hasty Pudding shows, right?”

Charles gives her a surprised look, and she thinks she’s successfully distracted him. After a second, he shakes his head, chuckling, his tone dry. “Donna, the Hasty Pudding was a burlesque show... in _ drag_.”

She blinks, and her eyes go wide, as she pictures Chuck, _ her _Chuck… in drag. “Oh.”

He grins, and she knows he’s picturing it too- only instead of a mental image, his version is memory. “The only ‘practice’ it gave me was in subjects not suitable for discussion in polite company. It’s hardly Shakespeare.”

“On the contrary, darling, I’d say drag and burlesque is probably right up old Bill’s alley,” she replies, giggling. 

Charles laughs too at least, as they walk into the hotel lobby. “Having read some of his more salacious works, I suppose I’d have to agree. But the man wrote about everything and nothing. Or at least,” he amends. “Quite a lot of _ nothing_.”

“Mm.”

“Ah, good, they have today’s _ Post_.” Charles makes a beeline for the coffee table, leaving Donna standing there watching him, her cheeks burning as she gets the joke. _ Quite a lot of nothing. _

Trying to clear her head, she wanders over to the check-in desk, leaving him to peruse the paper.

“Excuse me,” she says to a tired-looking clerk, “but there’s a hotel room booked under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Ogden-”

“Mr. and Mrs. who?” the clerk asks, bored.

She leans in, though she can see out of the corner of her eye, Charles still rifling through the newspaper. “Lauren and Humphrey Ogden, room 3110. We were hoping to get a later check-out time?”

“How late?” the clerk asks.

“Noon ought to do it.”

“Thanks, we’ll get that changed. Just leave the keys in the room when you check out, Mrs. Ogden.”

“Thank you,” she says, turning to leave, and nearly jumping out of her skin when she realizes Charles is right behind her. “Oh!”

“How is it I turn my back for two seconds and you wander off again?” he asks, annoyed, though she can see a flash of real fear in his eyes.

“How is it that I can’t even do us a favour without you worrying?” she asks, walking away. “I was getting us a late check-out so we can get some more sleep. You’re welcome.”

“Forgive me for worrying,” he says, following after her, newspaper tucked under his arm, “but I distinctly remember the last time you wandered off, you crossed paths with a traitor! One who, might I add, if he’d known who you were could have-”

“Well he _ didn’t _ know who I was, so stop making it sound like it’s the end of the goddamn world,” she says, as they walk towards the elevator, and it’s déjà vu from last night, and she has to stop. “...On second thought, let’s… let’s take the stairs.”

He glances at the elevator, and then at her, raising an eyebrow. “Alright.”

“Excellent.”

“But this conversation isn’t over,” he warns.

She groans, as they walk over to the stairwell. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“And Donna?”

She turns around, hand on the door. “What?”

“I never stop worrying,” he says quietly.


	12. Sunday, 9:31 AM

By the time the clock on the bedside table flips to 9:30, the sun is streaming through the open curtains, and Charles has worked his way through most of the Sunday edition of the _ Post_.

He’s already skimmed sports, arts and culture, and the cooking columns, tossing the world news and inch-thick politics sections aside without a second glance.

Donna is fast asleep on the bed beside him, curled up on top of the blankets, her breathing slow and even, her back to him, and despite being on the same bed, they may as well be on separate sides of a vast ocean.

He isn’t sure what prompts him to do it, besides the promise of an anchor, a safe harbor, but as he absentmindedly fills in the crossword, he reaches out and starts to stroke her hair.

He nearly pulls away as she suddenly turns over, but all she does is mumble sleepily to herself, evidently still soundly asleep. There’s a red crease across one cheek from where her face was pressed into the quilt, and laughter lines around her eyes that even deep relaxation can’t entirely erase, and as he strokes her hair, a smile curls the corner of her mouth.

It may only be reflex, but it still makes his heart stutter in his chest, like he’s tripping over an seldom-used word while making a speech.

It scares him, the hold she has on him, the way that losing her is enough to make a lump form in his throat, the way that loving her scares him too, but in all the right ways, even when she’s asleep- and drooling. 

“Hm…” He sets his pen down for a second to stretch, and to rub a hand over the bridge of his nose to relieve the pressure of his glasses, before turning back to the crossword, humming to himself quietly. “38 across…”

He glances down to make sure Donna is still asleep, her hair soft as he tucks a loose curl behind her ear.

“38 across… star, _ The Moon is Blue_.”

“Holden,” Donna murmurs from beside him, and he jerks his hand back on instinct, a singed finger withdrawn from a hot stove.

“... you’re awake,” he says after a moment, trying to cover his awkwardness.

“No, ‘m not. This is a recording.”

He inks in the clue, trying to hide his smile as he does. “You’ll be pleased to know that Holden fits.”

She yawns, her eyes opening at last. “Good.”

They share a hesitant smile, and he hates to shatter the moment. 

“Donna,” he says gently, setting the crossword down on the nightstand, and leaving 31 down, _ faithful Greek wife_, blank. “You and I need to talk.”

She gives him a look, surprised, and then confusion and alarm flicker across her face. “... No we don’t.”

“Yes,” he tries. “I believe we do.”

She grabs the end of one of the loose blankets and yanks it over her head, so that her words are muffled. “We can’t. I’ve just decided I’m not in today.”

He tries to pull the blanket back down over her face, and it results in a vicious tug of war between him and Donna, the bedsheets clutched between them.

Charles loses, and she tosses a pillow at him, before rolling away and burrowing further under the blankets. “Donna, please.”

“Nope. I’m out to lunch.”

He sighs, out of breath as he stares at the lump under the bedclothes, mentally counting to three before trying the second wave of extraction methods. He starts tickling her, making her practically yelp before she dissolves into undignified giggles. As they tussle over the blankets, Charles can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, of two grown adults practically wrestling over a bedsheet.

“Donna, surely we can handle this like adults!” he protests, tickling harder as she wriggles underneath the sheets, her grip like steel, and they’re both laughing.

“You’ll have to catch me first!” she cries back, breathless with laughter.

And he leans over, finally managing to get the sheet away from her face, still laughing, but the laughter dies on his lips once the sheet is left to float down off the side of the bed, his hands clutching her wrists, feeling her heartbeat under his fingers.

Oh God, she’s so close to him, her face flushed with laughter, eyes sparkling, her neatly-pinned hair now loose and dark against the sheets, a lingering scent of cherry blossoms blooming in the space between them.

His eyes flicker to her lips, and he needs to kiss her, as many times as she’ll let him.

He’s leaning in before common sense can stop him, and she’s arching up to meet him like this is what she has been waiting for, and prudence dictates he close his eyes, but he can’t, his eyes are fixed on her, only her.

_ Do you want this? _he asks silently, and her lips curve into an answering smile, and he can’t wait to know what her smile tastes like, and she is close enough now that he can feel her warm breath on his lips.

Just as he’s about to kiss her, there’s a loud _ thud _as something crashes to the floor, and before Charles can blink, the moment is gone, shattered.

There is only the ragged edges left, the shards that will need to be retrieved before any real damage can be done.

“What was that?” Donna asks after a second, her cheeks a deeper shade of pink, both of them frozen in place.

He doesn’t know exactly what she’s asking, but it doesn’t seem to matter since he’s forgotten how to speak.

And then reality sinks in, the magnitude of what almost happened hitting him, and he has to pull away, breaking eye contact as he retrieves his phone from the floor beside the bed and sits back down on the edge, the moment lost in the crash of waves as the ocean rises between them again. 

Donna sits up, her hair left to tumble down around her face, and he can feel her eyes on him as he removes his reading glasses, tucking them back into his pocket.

Finally, he speaks, his voice soft. “Donna…”

“Chuck,” she says in return. “See? I can name names too.”

She tries for a smile but unlike the last, it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You have no idea how much you scare me,” he says quietly.

This throws her, the smile vanishing. “What?”

“I said-”

“I heard _ what _ you said, I’m just… what the fuck are you talking about? _ I _ scare _ you?" _

He blinks, confused, because it’s obvious, it has to be, how fear has him in its grasp every waking hour. “How can you not know this already? Donna, I… I said as much last night. In the… the elevator. You terrify me!”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you see? You scare the living daylights out of me on a regular basis!” Despite himself, the fear is giving way to a clawing anger. “What am I _ talking _about? I’m talking, Donna, about your apparent need to be a hero! You act as though you’re invincible, as though you’re Herakles, when I know you to be-”

“To be what? Smaller than you? Weaker? A woman?” she challenges, fire blazing up in her eyes.

“Human,” he says softly, his voice cracking. “You are so very _ human_.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that… you… you take limitations as challenges, without any regard for your own safety.”

“I know my limits,” she tells him. “I _ know _how to read a situation, and I’ve always come out unscathed.”

“And what about the day where you misread a situation? What then? Am I supposed to stand by idly and watch you die, unable to lift even a finger? Donna, I don’t… I _ cannot _allow that to happen.” He shakes his head, dispelling the spirits that lurk in his shadows, feeling suddenly ancient. “To lose one is too many.”

She exhales slowly. “It’s not gonna happen any time soon, Chuck. I’m stronger than I look, and you’re not going to lose me. But… nobody lives forever, you know that.”

“I am not asking for forever,” he replies. “I wouldn’t dare ask for something as vast as _ forever_. What I am asking is that I never have to witness you dying some painful, reckless, _ heroic _ death right before my eyes and do so _ knowing _that I am powerless to change it. That alone would…” 

She raises an eyebrow, and he clears his throat against the lumps.

“It would ruin me,” he says simply. 

“Seeing me die?”

“Losing you.” He ducks his head, unable to meet her eye any longer. “I couldn’t stand it if something were to happen. And much as I wish otherwise, you are not invincible.”

“You never know,” she says, reaching out and taking his hand. “Maybe I am.”

“You’re not-”

“Maybe I am,” she repeats, and squeezes his hand. “When I’m with you, it’s how I feel, you know? Invincible.”

He blinks at this, completely lost at sea, clutching her hand like she can save him. “You…”

“I told you, Chuck. You make me feel safe. You _ keep _me safe. How could… how could I feel anything less than invulnerable when I have you?”

“But… I…” He shifts, turning so he can look at her, both of them still sitting on the bed. “But you aren’t invincible. With or without me.”

“And what, you’re afraid to live without me?”

“I don’t _ want _ to know what it’s like to live without you,” he says. “Maybe I _ can_, maybe I could learn to… but the thing is, Donna, I don’t _ want _ to. You are my friend, my _ partner, _my...”

“Your what?” she asks. 

_ My everything_, he thinks, and nearly cringes. That will simply not do, and it is not the answer she’s looking for. He could give a long-winded compliment, or worse, be honest with her, but settles instead for taking her hand and kissing it. “My dear.”

It’s the kiss he’s wanted to bestow for so long.

And it still isn’t enough.

She deserves to be kissed properly, on the mouth, and often, and if ever there was a willing supplicant, it’s him. 

But the moment has passed.

When he looks up at her, she’s a rich shade of pink, until she ducks her head, her hair falling in front of her face, and for a second he thinks he’s chosen poorly.

He’s still holding her hand, brushing his thumb hesitantly over her knuckles, remembering the feeling of her lifeline under his touch, trying to imagine kissing that, again and again, blessing her life the way she’s blessed his.

And he should let go, but he so badly wants to kiss her again.

He isn’t sure where they stand, isn’t sure if this is the moment the carefully-constructed walls will crumble, but when she lifts her head again, her expression is so achingly raw and tender that he just _ knows: _

She’s not letting go of him either.

“Last night…” she trails off. “Charles, listen, I-”

His heart skips a beat. 

But then, whatever she’s about to say is cut off by the opening bars of Queen’s “Under Pressure”, muffled somewhat by the bed covers, and her eyes go wide. “Fuck.”

She lets go of him, scrambling for her phone in the blankets, and, finding it under one of the pillows, answers it. “Parker. What the fuck do you want?”

She shoves her hair out of her face as she sits down, holding it away from her face and mouthing "BJ" to him, before nodding. "Yes, he's here too. Where the fuck else would he be?"

She listens intently, and rolls her eyes. "Oh fuck you. What do you want? Okay, okay. Don't shout," she says, hitting the speaker button and setting the phone down on the bed.

"You two need to get ready," BJ is saying on the other end, sounding amused. "New plan."

"You cannot change the plan a mere three and a half hours before it's to be executed!" Charles protests.

"Hi to you too, Chaz baby. And yeah, I know it's a little late-"

"A little? Hunnicutt, there are many things that are little, like Pierce's IQ. However, I cannot count your shoe size or the lateness of the hour among them."

"Ignoring that slight against my foot size, what does a change in plan matter?”

Charles doesn’t answer right away, distracted, watching as Donna ties her hair back up.

“Charles?”

“What?” he asks.

“I _ said _what does it matter if we change the plan?” BJ asks, amused. “...Did I catch you two in the middle of something?”

"Are you going to tell us the new plan, or are you going to fuck around?" Donna asks impatiently, decidedly not looking at Charles. "Because if you're going to be a comedian, I'll hang up."

"Hold your metaphorical horses," BJ says in return. "Hawk is talking to Margaret right now, she's got the updated poop."

"The fresh poop," Donna whispers to Charles, who grins. 

"Wh-"

"Hey lovebirds, how's the love nest?" Hawkeye's voice is still entirely too cheerful for someone who's been awake since God only knows when.

"Pierce, if there is a point, and I pray there is, kindly get to it, without your usual salacious colour commentary," Charles says. 

"I just got off the phone with Margaret-"

"That's Lieutenant Colonel Houlihan to _ you_, Hawkeye."

"I think I've earned the right to call her Margaret, I know her well enough. Biblically even."

Charles rolls his eyes. "Pierce if I wanted to hear about your conquests in nauseating detail, I'd read your diary."

"I wouldn't recommend that, Charles. No pictures," BJ says.

"Can you _ please _stop fucking around and get to the plan already?” Donna asks, frustrated, as she stands, grabbing her wire from the nightstand. 

"Well," Hawk says. "_Somebody _didn't get enough coffee this morning. The new drop is at 11:30."

"Same location?" Charles asks. 

"Nope." There's a beat, while Hawk checks his notes- no doubt scribbled all over his palm. "Flagg's drop has not only moved times but locations."

"Well, where is it now?" Donna asks, tossing Charles his own wire. "Or do you want us to guess?"

"Charles, couldn't you have gotten her another cup of coffee?"

"Do shut up, Pierce."

"It's in front of the memorial for the Korean War."

"The what?"

"The Korean War? Fought in the fifties, and _ in _Korea, funny enough-"

“_No_, I know what the Korean War is, you _ dolt_. I simply don’t remember any memorial commemorating it.”

“It’s on the National Mall,” Hawkeye explains. “It’s pretty secluded compared to the others. I get the feeling Korea wasn’t really a popular war.”

“Though to be fair,” BJ says. “It wasn’t a war, it was a police action.”

“So why didn’t they send cops?” Donna asks, clearly not in the mood for a history lesson as she puts her wire on, causing Charles to hastily avert his eyes. 

“Do _ I _look like I know anything about the Korean War?” Hawk demands. 

“You do not look as if you know much about anything.”

“Look. All I want is for you to go to the memorial at 11:30, and create a little police action of your own. Wham, bam, totally a plan!”

“You should have sufficient privacy to make the arrest,” BJ adds. “As Hawk said, it’s more secluded.”

“Save a little action for me though,” Hawk says. “Police or otherwise-”

Donna hangs up on him before he can continue, and flops back into the nest of pillows, exhausted, before pulling a pillow over her face. Judging from the muffled noises, she’s currently screaming into it, and it’s probably best to leave her be.

Charles waits, taking the opportunity to put his own wire back on and straighten his collar.

Once he feels he’s given her enough time, he approaches cautiously. “Donna?”

“_What_.”

“Would you like another cup of coffee before we check out?”

The only response he gets is Donna throwing her pillow at him. 

“Thank you.”

“Be grateful it wasn’t my shoe.”

“Noted.”

She swings off the bed, smoothing her hair back, perfectly composed. “We’d better get ready to go.”


	13. Sunday, 10:02 AM

He first notices the man when they’re standing in line at the coffee cart a block over from the hotel, but at first doesn’t think too much of it, beyond a small flicker of recognition that he can’t place. 

He’s too focused on Donna, still wearing his Harvard sweatshirt over her sundress, face tilted up to catch the sunlight, loose curls of her hair spilling around her face in the breeze (the way it spilled across the sheets this morning).

The wind aside, it’s another beautiful spring day, warm and sunny.

“Are you sure you don’t want another coffee?” she asks, turning to him. 

He just smiles, his fingers itching with the urge to tuck her hair back into place. “Quite, thank you. My body is a temple.”

“And I suppose mine’s, what… a temple of doom?” she teases.

“Er- no. No I wouldn’t say that at all,” he says, flustered, his eyes flickering to her lips, and flushes hotter as he remembers how close he came to kissing her before, how much he’d like to tug her in now and kiss her until they forget everything else. “Q-Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Donna looks as though she’d very much like to say something else, but she’s interrupted by the cashier clearing his throat, and turns away, her own cheeks pink. “Uh, two… two black coffees please.”

He blinks. “You’re not going to drink two coffees.”

“Of course not,” she says, rolling her eyes as she pays. “One of them’s for you.”

“For- But- I just said I was fine!”

“How many hours of sleep have you gotten in the past two days?”

“That’s hardly relevant.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you’re not tired?”

“On the contrary, I shall probably sleep for a _ week _once we’ve finished here, but to stimulate the body with caffeine-”

“Oh relax,” she says, taking the two coffee cups from the cashier with a nod of thanks. “It’s _ coffee_, Chuck. It’s not like I’m giving you uppers or anything.”

He eyes her suspiciously as they make their way around the side of the cart, to where the cream and sugar dispensers are. “_Have _you considered giving me uppers before?”

“No…” she says, and grins as she passes over the coffee. “Here. My treat.”

“Treat?” he asks. “Or treaty?”

“Are you always this suspicious?”

“My dear, you know how kings would employ a taster to ensure their meals weren’t poisoned?”

“Yes…?”

“Yes, well that practice is an old and noble one… that my family still practices.”

“Drink your coffee, Chuck.” But she grins at his teasing. “Unless you want me to taste it for you?”

“I trust you,” he says, accepting it.

He sips his coffee as he watches her go through the motions of pouring cream and sugar into her cup, humming under her breath. It’s the little things that he loves to watch, the casual way she tears open the sugar packet, the way she taps her thumb against the side of the cup to whatever song is playing in her head, and he passes her a stir stick before she can ask for it. 

She gives him a surprised, brilliant smile, one that sets him aflame, before turning back to her coffee without a word.

_ “… they say in Boston even beans do it…” _she sings absentmindedly to herself.

Charles jolts back into awareness, his cheeks hot at the realization that she heard him singing this morning, and he’s pretty sure he blushes down to the soles of his shoes.

He watches, watches as she continues humming to herself, watches her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, simply _ watches _her.

Until she looks at him, and sees him. “What are you looking at?”

“Traffic,” he says, nodding over her shoulder. “I was watching the traffic.”

She turns and looks at the empty street behind them. “... right.”

“Shall we er- shall we go?”

“Sure, if you can tear yourself away from the riveting… traffic,” she says, clearly trying not to smile.

As they start walking away, the man from before seems to pop up out of nowhere, crashing into Donna and spilling her coffee on her sweater, though most of it splashes onto the pavement. 

“Fuck!” she yelps, jumping backwards, and nearly falling over as she tries to avoid getting coffee on her shoes. Charles barely manages to catch her, as she looks around wildly.

But the man is already gone.

“Asshole,” she mutters, scowling, as she gets herself upright.

“Are you alright?” Charles asks, his heart still racing from the pettiness and surprise of the ambush. He’s already grabbing napkins and blotting at the rapidly-spreading stain across the sweater, before he realizes what he’s doing. “He didn’t burn you, did he?”

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she says, placing a hand over his. “Really.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, looking her over. “Because if he hurt you, I swear-”

“Physically, I’m alright. Just mad as hell. I just spent five minutes preparing that and I didn’t even get to drink it before that fucking idiot decided to play demolition derby!”

“Did- did you want mine? I’ve hardly touched it,” he offers, tugging her out of the way. But she frowns thoughtfully after the man. “Donna?”

“Hm?” she asks, noticing at last. “I’m sorry, Chuck, what did you say?”

“Take mine,” he offers. “As I’ve said, I barely touched it.”

“But-”

“Here,” he says, passing it over. “It’s only had my mouth on it, which has been in far worse places.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Your mind is filthy.”

“Takes one to know one, I’d say. We can share it.”

“A filthy mind?’

“The coffee,” she says with a grin. “Idiot.”

“You don’t want the whole thing?”

“No, you take it black.”

“Of course. It seems foolish to sully something so rich and perfect with frivolous additions. True richness will always work best unadorned.”

“In other words, for the people in the cheap seats, you want to actually taste coffee.”

“As insane as that sounds, yes.”

She sips it, her eyes sliding shut in bliss at the caffeine rush. And then she passes it back, making a face. “Thank you. It’s… strong.”

“Yes,” he says, eyeing her. “I prefer it that way.”

He’s about to take another sip, when he notices the smudge of her lipstick on the rim, remembers the same shade on a bottle of bourbon only (good god) two nights ago, and settles for carrying it instead.

They walk for a few more minutes in not-altogether-awkward silence, passing the single coffee back and forth, as they make their way through downtown.

And then Charles sees the man again out of the corner of his eye, on the other side of the street, but watching them intently.

"Donna," he says casually, as he passes the coffee back. "Don't look now but your friend from the coffee kiosk seems to be following us."

Her eyes flash with anger, but all she does is smile at him. "Oh? Where is he? And do you think he prefers to be diced or julienned?”

“I hate to be the voice of reason,” Charles says, placing a placating hand on her shoulder, “but we _ cannot _blow our cover.”

She nods, and glances backwards at their friend. “Holy shit.”

“What?” he asks, alarmed, looking around.

“That man,” she says, grabbing his arm and tugging him in close. “_That man is the one from the ice cream stand_.”

He blinks at this revelation. “Shall we try and lose him?”

“S-Sure.”

They keep walking, casually, so as not to tip off their stalker. He tentatively wraps an arm around Donna’s waist, moving slowly so she has a chance to stop him, and even though her eyes widen and she chokes on her coffee, she doesn’t. 

Instead, she does the same, her eyes fixed on his face, her fingers light but warm through the fabric of his shirt as her arm circles his waist. For a second, the warmth is all he can feel, and then he feels the tremors, and he has to hide the way his stomach swoops, a jittery staring-into-a-dark-tomb sort of feeling.

His arm tightens a little, involuntarily, which pulls her in closer, and when she brushes against his side, she smiles apologetically and he feels that he should be the one apologizing, because having her so close is _ agony_.

Casting about for a subject, trying to remember acceptable topics of conversation that don’t involve kissing her senseless, he settles on one. 

“How do you feel about dogs?” he asks, rather abruptly, turning to look at her, and realizes too late how close her face is, how he can now count every freckle on her nose, how she still smells like cherry blossoms.

She raises an eyebrow at this, but plays along. “Depends on the dog. Why?”

“Well, you see… my sister has been making noise about getting us a dog for Christmas.”

“Oh?” Donna asks, amused. “Well your sister _ is _a force of nature, darling, so I wouldn’t put anything past her.” 

“That makes two of us,” he says, and raises an eyebrow of his own. “Are you quite sure you picked the right sibling?”

“I’m sure,” she says, grinning. “Though to be fair, fifty-fifty is pretty damn good odds I’d get the right one.” 

He pushes down the painful stab of memory, and tries to smile. “I take it that means you wouldn’t mind a dog?”

She shrugs. “I’m game for anything… Humphrey. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I refuse to be one of those couples that has to draw up a custody arrangement for a dog. If we’re in this together, we’re in this together, you got that?”

“Of- of course,” he says, and frowns, a little thoughtful, trying not to think of Donna meeting his sister in reality. “It seems that you _ and _my sister are both blessed with knowing your own minds. And God help anyone who dares cross you.”

“It used to drive my girlfriend crazy,” Donna says wistfully, and grins when he chokes on a sip of coffee. “Oh _ c’mon _Chuck, don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“I mean, I _ did_,” he replies, wiping coffee from his chin, too surprised to say anything about the slip-up of saying his name. “It is still refreshing to hear you be so frank on the subject.”

“Well after last night,” she says, shrugging, though her grin grows wider. “I figured I could trust you with this not-entirely-secret knowledge. And hey, what can I say? I like my men how I like my women.”

“What a coincidence,” he replies dryly, smiling at her. “So do I.”

She laughs, taking the coffee from him and finishing it, before throwing it in the trash. Then she leans in as though she’s about to whisper something confidential. “Are we still being followed?”

He’s thrown, but recovers quickly. “As far as I know, yes.”

“Good,” she says as they round the corner. “How are you with running?”

“What?”

She pulls away from him, leaving him to ache briefly at the loss, and holds out a hand. “Just trust me.”

He takes it. “Of course.”

And then she’s got his hand firmly in hers, and they’re running down the street – though it’s more like she’s dragging and he’s being dragged along – sending a few pigeons scattering. 

“We’re- almost there,” she calls over her shoulder. “Hurry, we’ll miss it!”

Charles doesn’t have the breath to ask what in heaven’s name she’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter because as they careen around the next corner, a big crimson double-decker bus comes into view, parked at the curb in front of the hotel.

And the pieces click into place. “You’re marvelous,” he breathes, though she doesn’t hear him. 

She tugs him onboard, and up the stairs to the open-air second deck, where they collapse into a pair of seats near the front. 

“Donna,” he gasps when he remembers how to breathe, grabbing her face and pressing a breathless kiss to her forehead. “You- are- _ brilliant_.”

She practically glows at the compliment. “I have my moments.”

“That was most assuredly one of them,” he tells her, leaning back in his seat.

The man from before hurries up the steps at the front, and when he notices them, he slinks off towards the back. Donna grabs Charles’s hand, and when he glances at her, she gives him a sheepish smile and lets go. “Sorry. Reflex.”

The man sits down across the aisle, a few rows back, and Charles can feel his eyes on them. 

“Subtle,” he says to Donna, who grins. 

The bus rumbles to life underneath them, lurching forward, as though startled awake. 

Donna pulls out a leaflet emblazoned with the bus logo, and flips it open, oblivious to Charles staring at her, agog. Until she looks up and catches him watching. “What?”

“Did you- how did-?”

She grins. “I’m not just a pretty face you know. My contingency plans have contingency plans.”

“And the memorial?”

“The National Mall is on this route,” she confirms. “Though we may want to get off a stop or two beforehand so that we can lose our little friend in a crowd.”

“And you’re sure we’ll still get there in time to… see the sights?” he asks.

She winks. “All the sights worth seeing anyway.”

“I’m already seeing those.”

He’s rewarded with a blush as Donna laces her fingers through his again. “You’re too much.”

“And you’re brilliant, believe me.”

“I do. Really.” She clears her throat. “Should let Hawkeye know about our friend.”

“It can wait. Besides, if he’s paying attention, he should already know.”

“I do already know, thanks,” Hawkeye says in his ear. “Nice move by the way, Donna.”

“Thanks.”

“Keep it up, you two.” And then he’s gone again.

Charles wraps an arm around her shoulder as she leans into his chest, and he hopes she can’t feel his heart pounding in his chest. “You know, I have always wanted to see the city properly.”

“Funny,” she murmurs, her eyes sliding closed against him. “I always wanted to see it with you.”

She’s asleep before he can ask her if she means it.


	14. Sunday, 10:31 AM

It’s a half-hour later when the blaring of a car horn startles Donna awake, making her sit up straight, eyes wide. “Wh-!”

“It’s alright,” Charles says, and she relaxes when she hears his voice, giving him a sheepish smile. “Just traffic.”

She yawns, and rubs at her eyes as she leans back in against him, a warm presence against his side. “Was I out long?”

“Not very long, no. Pleasant dreams?”

She blinks at him, slowly. “How’d you know-”

“You were smiling,” he says quietly. “In your sleep.”

She turns pink, and shifts in her seat so that she’s no longer leaning against him. “I notice we’re not moving.”

“Yes, that would be the aforementioned traffic,” he teases gently. “Slower than molasses in January as my dear old grandmama would say.”

Her brow furrows. “We’re not going to be late, are we?”

“It’s just coming up on ten-thirty now,” he reassures her, trying not to stare at the crease in her forehead, trying not to think of kissing her there to wipe the worry from her face. 

His mouth does have a calming effect, just not in the way he’d hoped. 

At his words, Donna relaxes a tiny bit, and sighs. “We’ve got time.”

“All the time in the world,” he replies absentmindedly, and when she frowns at him, he clears his throat. “To make the meeting that is.”

“... Right.”

It’s silent for a second, and then Charles raises his voice to be heard over the ambient noise of the traffic. “That was an interesting choice of ringtone. Earlier, I mean. For er- for Pierce?”

She looks up at him, unimpressed. “Somehow I just _ knew _I’d be hearing about that again. Going to lecture me about professionalism?”

“No, I was going to ask… are _ all _of your ringtones Queen songs?” Charles asks. “I prefer the classics myself, but-”

“They _ are _classics, Chuck, even if they weren’t penned by anyone whose last name sounds like a sneeze,” she teases. “But yes, they are. Why do you ask?”

“Even for me?”

He’s rewarded with an eyeroll. “How often do you call me?”

“Often enough!” he protests. “So?”

“So?”

“So is it a Queen song?”

“Is what a Queen song?”

“Your ringtone for me!” he says, exasperated. “Do you enjoy watching me suffer?”

“Maybe I just like making you beg,” she says sweetly, reaching out to straighten his collar as he sputters. “Tit for tat, darling.”

“And you still haven’t said-”

“Yes, it’s a Queen song. Are you happy now?”

“Which Queen song?” he asks. “Because if it’s something absurd, I’d like to complain-”

“_Which _ one? Jesus Christ, Chuck, you can’t just ask a girl that! What’s next, the colour of my brassiere?”

“I- _ no_. I’m simply curious. Of course…” He pulls out his phone. “I _ could _simply call you-”

“No!” she yelps, and tries to grab his phone, making him laugh. He puts his phone back in his pocket, still chuckling to himself.

She’s trying to glare at him, but isn’t succeeding. “What the fuck was that for?”

“Tit for tat, my dear,” he tells her, still grinning. “So which-”

She snorts, and looks him in the eye, chin raised, and deadpans, “Well _ obviously _it’s Fat-Bottomed Girls.”

He cringes. “Really?”

She cracks up. “_No!” _

They're both reduced to helpless giggles for a few seconds, before Charles manages. “So-.”

“Bohemian Rhapsody,” she cuts him off. “It’s Bohemian Rhapsody.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “Well Pierce’s I can understand, but… Why?”

“Well it’s just… everyone likes to think they know it, but… they don’t? Because they just see one thing, when really it’s… everything,” she says, not meeting his eyes.

“Is that all?”

“It’s more than that, it’s… it’s a standard, you know? It’s timeless.”

“Even if it does feel like an acquired taste,” he agrees.

“It’s an old classic that I- that anyone,” she corrects hastily, “can’t help but love.”

Charles blinks, staring at her, her words turning over in his mind like the chorus of a song, and it dawns on him that they’re no longer just discussing the finer points of Queen’s music- just as he wonders why she’d be embarrassed for him to hear it. “You love- you love Bohemian Rhapsody?”

“Well of course,” she says, pink. “Doesn’t everyone? It’s- it’s _ the _ timeless classic.”

“It is,” he agrees, his voice quiet, and he’s about to reach for her hand-

The bus starts moving again, and he loses his nerve.

“Um. Anyway,” Donna starts, but her words are lost as the breeze kicks up, and she ends up with a faceful of her own hair, spluttering as she pulls it away. “God- damn- it.”

Charles tries to hold back a laugh as one of the tourists across the aisle, an older man with a Union Jack on his backpack, glares in their direction. A snort slips out regardless. 

“It isn’t _ funny_, Chuck,” she says, her voice muffled as the wind continues tossing her hair around.

“Here,” Charles says, once she’s wrangled the worst of it from her face. He holds up her hair clip. “Perhaps this might help.”

“I-“ She starts patting the pockets of her sundress in vain, her face cycling rapidly through several emotions. “Why, you- you-“

“Who exactly are you referring to as a _ you-you?"_

“How did you get that?” she demands.

“You left it on the nightstand,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want you to lose it.”

“Well… thank you, Chuck.”

She reaches for it, but he stops her. “Allow me?”

She nods.

He leans in, gently tugging her hair back from her face, his fingers tangling in her curls as he secures them with the clip, revealing her face. Her eyes are locked on his, and it feels as though they’re both holding their breath as he brushes his fingers over her tattoo, making her shiver, and it would be so terribly easy, and could end so terribly so easily if he were to simply lean down-

“There,” he says, barely a whisper.

He could swear he feels her pulse underneath his fingers.

“Thanks, Chuck.”

And he lets his hand drop back to his lap without another word.

** 

It would be so tempting, Charles thinks as he watches her, and so easy to forget the job, and to let the rest of the world fade away.

It would be so easy to forget their responsibilities, to spend the rest of this day riding the bus to the end of the line together, where nobody knows who they are.

But they aren’t alone, and they have a job to do.

And the announcer is calling for the next stop. 

“Now?” Donna asks, her hand slipping into his as she leans in, and the gesture is so casual it nearly leaves him too breathless to respond.

“Now.”

Before the bus has even come to a complete stop, they’re standing, and hurrying down the steps, and out the open doors, the two of them nearly careening into a group of Korean tourists in their haste.

They’re both laughing as they make a run for it, a little breathlessly, a little fringed with insanity, Charles’s heart pounding in his ears, his feet aching inside his shoes with every step, his lungs burning with the effort, but underneath it all, there’s that _ feeling _ of elation, and he understands suddenly what Donna means, her hand clutched in his: 

He feels invincible.

They slow, and then eventually stop, a couple hundred feet down the path and away from the crowds of tourists, both of them laughing in between gasped breaths, Donna’s fingers slick with sweat in Charles’s grasp as they lean against each other, trying to breathe properly.

“Are you alright?” he manages.

She’s still giggling a little, her face flushed with laughter and exertion, her neatly-pinned curls already half falling around her face, but at his question, she nods. “Perfect. You?”

“Peak condition,” he says. “I could do this all day.”

“You’re a dreadful liar,” she says, grinning, but there’s no heat to her words. “I don’t think we lost him.”

“Lost who?” Charles asks, his eyes on her lips.

“Our mutual friend,” she says, looking over Charles’s shoulder. “He’s a couple hundred yards back.”

“Do you…” Charles pants, still a bit winded from running. “Do you think he can read lips?”

“I don’t know,” she says, and then grins. “But how about we find out?”

“I have a better idea,” he says, grabbing her shoulders before she can turn and shout something obscene at their follower. “A _ much _ better idea.”

“What sort of idea?” she asks, warily.

And he gently turns her around so she can see the path ahead, heavy with the scent of cherry blossoms.

“Oh,” she says, a little breathlessly as she looks around. “Oh, Chuck...”

“I know it’s not Tokyo,” he says, apologetically, though he doesn’t think she’s listening. “But perhaps, it’s… close enough.”

Donna is still staring at the avenue of cherry trees spread out before them, pink and white petals spilling across the path and floating gently down from the branches like snowfall. 

Her eyes are lit up as she walks a few steps, mouth still open in awe, and she practically glows as she turns back to him. “Chuck, it's…”

“Do you…” He swallows hard, suddenly nervous. “Do you like it?”

“Like it?” she repeats, and then she starts laughing, staring up at the falling petals. “It’s like _ magic_.”

Caught up in the thinly-veiled magic of the place, she spins around, her skirt billowing out around her, more of her hair coming unpinned, and she’s never looked so beautiful as she does now, laughing among the falling petals as she spins.

He hurries forward to catch her when she slips, letting her brace herself on his forearm as she wobbles in her heels on the gravel footpath, and their eyes meet for a second. 

Her cheeks are the same faint pink as the cherry blossoms as she bends to pick a fallen cherry blossom from the ground. 

“Look,” she says, holding it up, and despite the well-travelled look of the path, it’s perfectly whole and untrampled. “It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says, watching her. “Perfect.”

She stands on her toes to tuck the cherry blossom behind his ear. “There.”

And she is still so close.

He forgets every word of every language he knows, but one phrase remains, his own invocation to a goddess.

_ I love you_.

“Donna,” he says instead, “I want very much to take you to dinner.”

She blinks at him, clearly confused. “What?”

“I want to take you to dinner,” he says again. 

It still hasn’t clicked, but she still nods gamely all the same. “Well sure, Chuck, that sounds good, I just thought we’d wait until after we climbed the Washington Monument, you know, all those stairs to work up a good appetite-”

“No,” he cuts her off.

“No?”

“I’m not pretending.”

She blinks, and he watches her brow furrow in confusion as he steps forward. “You mean-”

“I’m serious. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been more serious about anything in my life. I want so very much to take you to dinner, and then walk you to your front door afterwards, and kiss you properly, a hundred times, a thousand times, like we’ll have so much more than one evening, because we will, but I cannot do any of that unless I take you to dinner first, so please, _please, _just... say yes.”

“Chuck,” she says simply when he pauses to breathe, “Are you ever going to learn how to be succinct?”

It gives nothing away, but Charles tosses the die anyway. “How about I start right now?”

And before he can second-guess himself, he closes the gap between them, cups her face in his hands, and leans in without hesitation, his lips brushing against hers.

For just a fraction of a second, she is frozen in place.

And then, a whisper of a smile on her lips, she stands on her toes, throws her arms around him, and kisses him back like she’s just found out a delightful secret.

Donna’s hair smells like the falling cherry blossoms still floating to the ground around them, and her lips still taste like coffee as she kisses him, kisses him like she’s coming home after a long journey, and in this single desperate kiss, all the fear and longing and need, all the words they can’t say aloud, are here in this quiet space between them.

It’s real now, Charles thinks as he strokes a thumb absentmindedly over Donna’s cheekbone. It is real and it is good, and kissing Donna is what it must feel like to give over one’s truest self to another.

They finally break apart, his forehead resting against hers as they breathe, the cherry blossoms falling all around them. 

“Succinct enough for you?” he asks quietly, when he remembers how to speak.

Donna looks up at him, her smile brilliant and tender. “Yes. But just to make sure, I think you should do it again.”

He leans in again, slowly, and pulls the clip from her hair. As her curls fall around her radiant face, he tangles his fingers in her hair. 

His lips are just about to brush hers, when he whispers, almost in benediction, “_Anassa kata._”

“Yes,” she whispers again, and stands on her toes to meet him in the middle.

And it's the only answer he needs. 


	15. Sunday, 11:25 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mild Assault (Groping)

Before, the thought of touching Donna was _ excruciating_, even painful. Now, however, the opposite is true, and every second he cannot touch her, even just to tuck a stray curl behind her ear or brush a fallen petal from her shoulder, is _ torture_.

The National Mall is crowded with tourists from one end to the other, all of them sweating under the hot mid-morning sun. But even as the crowds grow, Donna’s hand is still firmly in his, their intruder lost far behind them in the crowd, and she smiles when he looks over at her.

How could the sun hope to compare?

If Flagg is watching them right now, Charles hopes he’s convinced. 

(Charles certainly is.)

They’re a few minutes early, by Donna’s watch, but it’s a beautiful day, and Washington seems to shine where normally it glowers, and it stands tall where it usually hunkers down and sulks. 

It has to be the company, he thinks, darting another shy look in Donna’s direction.

All of this subterfuge is ridiculous when not that long ago they were-

“Chuck,” Donna says, squeezing his hand. “You’re spacing.”

He realizes he’s been staring at her mouth, thinking of kissing her, and laughs, ducking his head in embarrassment. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

She rolls her eyes in fond exasperation. “Just that I see the memorial.”

“Oh?”

She nods and he follows her line of sight. “Those trees there, I think.”

“Are you sure?”

A huffy sigh escapes as she pulls out the bus pamphlet again, unfolding it into a map and shoving it into his hands. “Look.”

“Wh-“

“_Look_,” she insists, jabbing her pointer finger into the map. “The Lincoln memorial is behind us, right?”

“Yes. So?”

“So, if you were a half decent cartographer…” she teases. “Just trust me, okay? A little bit of trust goes a long way.”

“It does. And yes, you’re right,” he says, and gives her a fond smile as she folds the map. “We make good tourists.”

She grins. “C’mon.”

They make their way towards the copse of trees that partially blocks the memorial from view.

An uneasy feeling takes hold of Charles, slithering down his back to curl around the base of his spine. 

He can’t resist a final look over one shoulder, paranoia suddenly gripping him in its claws, but aside from a group of Canadian tourists walking past, there’s nothing there.

“Chuck,” Donna says, getting his attention. “Are we ready?”

“I… I think so, yes,” he says, and hates himself for hesitating, “But Donna-”

“It’s okay, Chuck,” she says with a smile. 

“But there’s something- I mean…” He falters under her gaze.

“It can wait,” she assures him. “You owe me a dinner, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

“Chuck,” she cuts him off gently, but firmly. 

This pulls him up short, as he tries to gather his thoughts. No need to go into this with his knees knocking together in fright- he can at least try and muster some wit. “Not even a kiss for luck?”

She stands on tiptoe and presses a too-short kiss to his mouth. “C’mon then, silly old bear.”

“Silly old bear?” he repeats, amused.

She gives him a smile, brilliant as the sun, and squeezes his hand before letting go. “Braver than you believe, darling.”

This is the bravest, most foolhardy operation they could do, walking into an unknown situation, without weapons and with limited back up, but they’re together, and that alone will make him brave.

They duck behind the trees, still able to see the memorial, the last few interested tourists hurrying away from the hauntings of forgotten battlefields, leaving this one, so unscarred by combat, barren.

Even the statues seem to be holding their breath.

Charles and Donna exchange a nod, and Charles murmurs, “Pierce, we’re here.”

“All’s quiet on the Eastern front?” Hawkeye asks, amused. 

“No sign of Flagg, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“Well, his tracker says he’s currently in the middle of the Potomac, so either he ditched his decoder ring to wear a couple of seashells, _ or-"_

“He ditched his tracker.”

“It’s waterproof?” Charles asks. 

“Why the shell wouldn’t it be?”

Donna snorts, but Charles just rolls his eyes. “So what you are saying is that you have no confirmation of Flagg’s current whereabouts?”

“Well… no. But he’ll be here, I’m sure of it.”

“… Are you?”

“Our information is sound.”

“It better be,” Donna mutters. “Or I’ll tell Margaret what she can do with her job offer.”

This makes Charles laugh, an indecent little giggle that slips out, one that makes Donna grin. 

“Are you ready to go?” Hawkeye asks.

“Yeah,” Donna replies. “Much as we love the sound of your voice, probably a good time to go quiet.”

“We’ll be listening in,” Hawkeye says. “Be careful.”

“Good luck,” BJ says softly.

“See you on the other side.”

They watch the scene in silence for a few minutes, from their secluded corner of the Mall.

“Donna,” Charles says after a moment. 

“What?”

“Don’t do anything reckless, alright?”

She rolls her eyes. “_Chuck_-”

“No, no, I mean it. No wandering in with katanas aloft, no honey traps-”

“Be careful,” she sums up. “Don’t get dead.”

He snorts. “Yes, exactly.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“No,” he says. “Promise me, Donna.”

She raises an eyebrow, but after a second, smiles. “I promise I’ll be careful. What about you?”

“What about me?” he asks in return. “I’ve never been the one with a propensity for wandering into dangerous situations. That has always been _ your _ specialty.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Says the man who chased a shady antiques dealer through Cairo and tackled him.”

“That,” he informs her, “does _ not _count.”

She laughs, but quickly sobers. “I just… if I’m not allowed to do anything stupid, you shouldn’t be either. Tit for tat, you know.”

“It was not in my agenda to be stupid today,” he says.

“Still,” she insists. “Promise me, Chuck.”

“Alright, alright, I-”

“Chuck,” she cuts him off, getting distracted, grabbing his arm as man walks up to the memorial, pretending to study the statues. “That’s not Flagg.”

“It’s our follower from the ice cream stand,” Charles says mildly. “And it’s just eleven-thirty now.”

“He’ll be here.”

They wait a few more minutes, watch as the man checks his own watch, exasperation written all over his face. 

“He looks rather annoyed,” Donna notes.

“Well of course, you can hardly blame him. He’s behind schedule now.”

“How’s that?”

“Any man dealing in secrets isn’t just buying, he’s also likely selling to the highest bidder. One cog can put the whole machine out of order,” he says casually. “It’s just… business.”

He colours under her curious gaze. 

“You know a lot about shady business dealings for a man who hunts down rare artifacts.”

“Let’s just say I know a thing or two about shady business dealings and leave it at that.”

“Let’s just say you know a thing or two about a lot of things,” she replies, and they share a smile. 

She sighs, leaning against the tree, as they watch the stooge pace back and forth. 

If he wasn't worried about being seen, Charles would be pacing too, nervous as he is about this drop. 

“Eleven-thirty-seven,” he says, checking his watch again. “Maybe he’s not coming?”

“Or maybe he’s running late?” Donna suggests.

“Or maybe,” comes an oily voice from behind them, “_maybe _you two have been set up.”

Charles and Donna both whip around only to find Flagg smirking at them down the barrel of a gun. 

“Ah,” Charles says, trying to swallow the sudden spike of anxiety as he eyes the gun. “Flagg. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but…”

“But why lie?” Donna cuts him off. 

“Let me guess,” Flagg says, giving them the once-over. “Pierce, right? Boy, that commie-lover really brought out the big guns on this one. A couple of washed-up antiquities experts play-acting as spies.”

“I guess you’d be the expert on play-acting as a spy, wouldn’t you?” Donna asks sharply, and while her bravery fills Charles with fleeting hope, it evaporates into mist with terror biting its heels. 

Flagg gives Charles a level look, ignoring Donna. “Those shoes don’t suit you at all, Comrade.”

“Yes I will indeed take fashion advice from a dime-store _ spy_, whose decoder ring came from a _ cereal box _no doubt,” Charles replies dryly.

“And you,” Flagg says, turning to Donna. It sends a chill down Charles’s spine at how Flagg is looking at her, like he’s standing at the butcher’s counter, eyeing a particularly nice cut of meat. “The bitch looking for the bathroom.”

“Bitch?” Charles asks, his whole body a sudden live wire of anger. “How dare you-”

“Chuck.” There's a note of fear in her voice but it's well-hidden by layers of steel as she stares at Flagg. _ “Don’t. _I’ve been called much worse... by much more powerful men.”

“That’s cute,” Flagg tells her, before glancing between her and Charles. “So tell me, how clever do you think your man Pierce think he is, cooking up this little game?”

“Probably cleverer than you,” Donna mutters. “Not that it’s hard.”

“Betcha thought I wouldn’t remember, huh?” Flagg asks Donna. He runs the muzzle of his gun along Donna’s jaw line, and to her everlasting credit, she doesn’t flinch. 

Charles’s heart drops to somewhere around the worn soles of his purple chucks. “I swear, Flagg, you lay one finger on her-”

“I don’t exactly see you in a position to stop me, Winchester,” Flagg says, and turns back to Donna. “It’s a shame, really. Wasting a pretty face on a nosy bitch who thinks she can stand up to a _ man_.”

“Go _ fuck _yourself,” Donna spits, the way a captive spy spits blood in the villain’s face, and Charles freezes as Flagg’s smile turns dangerous.

Flagg straightens, as Donna smiles defiantly up at him. 

And then he slaps her across the face, hard.

Charles doesn’t think, he just acts, already reaching to close his fingers around Flagg’s weaselly throat. “You-”

When he's grabbed from behind, his arm wrenched as he struggles and he gasps in pain.

Flagg doesn’t even look at him, is entirely unaware of the rage-filled blue blood pulsing through every vein Charles has. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, friend.”

“Or what?” Charles asks, hating how his voice wobbles from the pain burning up his arm. “Y-You’ll cause me some manner of grievous bodily harm? Really, luck to you for thinking you could-”

“Not you,” Flagg says. “But I wouldn’t hesitate to blow _ her _brains out… after having a bit of fun with her, of course.”

“You want to try?” Donna challenges. “Go ahead. I dare you.”

“Donna,” Charles pleads.

“You couldn’t put a hole in a _ doughnut_,” she tells Flagg. 

Charles is looking around wildly thinking that for all the forgotten battlefields of Korea, he may be standing in one of his own- not a single person has noticed the tense standoff among the trees.

“What is it you want from us?” he asks Flagg.

Flagg smiles, and turns to Donna. “See? You could learn a thing or two about a woman’s place from him."

Donna smiles back, chin high. “And _ you _could learn what kind of nasty comeuppance comes to nasty men like you. Of course, you’d have to learn to read first.”

“Donna, _ don’t.” _It’s a plea.

“Ought to do yourself a favour and listen to him,” Flagg says to Donna

“And you ought to do us all a favour and turn that gun on yourself, but I suppose we can’t be that lucky, can we?” she asks sweetly.

“Look- just…” Charles tries to think but all he can see is the gun pointed at Donna’s forehead. “Just tell us what to do. _ Please_.”

“Hey. Don’t try and make friends with me,” Flagg warns. “Pratt, relieve these two of their wires.”

The other man – Pratt – releases Charles, who rubs at his shoulder and cringes at the sharp residual pain.

Charles wants to look away from the gun pointed at Donna’s face, wants to go back to first thing this morning when they were safe, when she was safe, but that isn’t an option.

But if he plays his cards right, he can still keep her safe.

So he simply swallows hard, pulling off his wire and dropping it into the plastic bag the man is holding.

“That goes for you too,” Flagg tells Donna. “Want me to take it off for you?”

Still staring him down, she tugs the wire out of her dress herself, giving him a venomous smile as she drops it in the bag. “Not fucking likely.”

“I don’t think that’s all you’re hiding under that dress,” he says softly.

“You’re delusional.”

Flagg smiles at her, as he passes his gun over to Pratt, before pushing Donna up against the tree, and shoving his hand up her skirt.

She tries to kick him, swearing breathlessly, and Charles goes white hot with anger.

“Don’t-”

He's stopped cold when Flagg’s goon clocks him in the face, sending him reeling backwards.

“Charles!”

Charles stares dizzily up at her as Flagg grins, pulling a tiny gun from underneath her skirt, letting Donna go.

“Not just happy to see me then,” he says smugly.

Donna makes a highly uncharitable suggestion as to what he can do with the gun, as she straightens her skirt.

“You _ bastards,” _ Charles manages once he has the breath to speak again. “You absolute… _ bastards_.”

The guilt and helplessness is already curdling into a stomach-churning maelstrom, as Flagg passes Donna’s weapon over to Pratt, exchanging it for his own, and grabs Donna’s arm with his other hand. “Let’s go.”

“Your informant,” Donna says, wiping blood from her nose with the back of her hand as they walk. “The one who gave us the fake information. Was it Margaret Houlihan?”

Charles is surprised to hear the fear in her voice and even more surprised to realize he feels the same way. 

“Margaret Houlihan? That Pentagon lapdog with a stick up her ass? Were you born yesterday?”

Donna sighs in relief. “Then who?”

“You ever hear of a sniveling weasel named Frank Burns? Now _ there’s _a dupe.”

Charles isn't one to defend Frank Burns, but still, the idea eats at him. “How dare you take advantage-”

“I think you’ve got bigger things to worry about,” Flagg says. “And he was too easy- the only people easier to trap were you two.”

“And you really think you’re clever enough to get away with this?” Donna demands, and then groans. “Fuck, of _ all _the cliches.”

“Easy. I don’t think. Saves time,” he tells her. “Gimme the bag, Pratt.”

He lets go of Donna, taking the bag from Pratt, before neatly launching it into the air.

It lands with a splash in the Reflecting Pool, scattering a few nearby ducks. 

Flagg turns back to them, gun held neatly to Donna’s side. “Come on.”

“You absolute _ fuckwad_,” Donna says darkly. “That’s littering.”

"Yeah? You're gonna write me a ticket?" he asks. “Move.”

Charles and Donna exchange a helpless look, but do as they’re told.

It must be an odd sight, the four of them, and Charles looks at every tourist they pass, hoping to make some sort of impression, but they all seem oblivious, desensitized to the idea that something could be wrong.

And then they get to the curb, oddly deserted for such a busy day downtown, where there's a van waiting.

“Look, Flagg,” Charles tries, feeling as though fear will choke him. “I’m sure we can make some kind of arrangement. At least- at least let Donna go.”

“Chuck, _ no.” _

“You really think I’d be dumb enough to buy that, Winchester? That’s the oldest trick in the book. She’s coming with us, just like you.”

Pratt slides the back door of the van open, and grabs Donna, clearly preparing to throw her in. 

Before he can do that though, she elbows him in the face, resulting in a nasty crunching noise.

“My nose!” he cries, “you broke my goddamn nose!”

“It’s an improvement!” Donna tells him, before Flagg grabs her arm again.

“Look I thought this was cute at first, but you’re gonna calm down, you got that?”

“And you think I’m going to be scared of you?” she asks quietly, no sign of pain on her face despite the iron grip Flagg has on her arm. 

“You should be,” he replies. “You _ should _ be scared.”

“Go fuck a cattle prod.”

“Donna, _ stop,” _Charles begs, because this is his worst nightmare come to life, his beautiful brave Donna who doesn’t know her limitations, doesn’t know when to stop, and it is going to get her killed.

“I’d suggest you listen to your boyfriend, Donna. For once, he might have some idea of what he’s saying.”

“I’d suggest you go directly to hell. Don’t pass go, and don’t collect two hundred dollars,” Donna says in reply.

“Donna, please,” Charles begs.

“I’ve had just about enough of you, Charlie,” Flagg says, turning to look at him. “But don’t worry- at least you get to miss the next little while. Can’t say the same for your girlfriend. Pratt, take care of him.”

Charles’s blood turns to ice as Pratt looms overhead, then the gun comes down with a crack, and the last thing he hears is an anguished cry from Donna.


	16. Sunday, 11:29 AM

Hawkeye and BJ are a few blocks away, waiting, only half-listening to what’s going on.

“I swear,” BJ starts, glancing sideways at the monitor, “we’re-“

“Beej, if you say we’re ‘missing something’ one more time, I swear…” Hawk says, ignoring his monitor in favor of folding a paper airplane. 

“Hawk, please, can’t you at least try to be serious?”

“I tried it once,” Hawk says, looking up. “Everybody laughed.”

“We’ve got a lot of variables that could go sideways on us here!” BJ starts ticking them off on his fingers. “We have two unarmed civilians – that would be Charles and Donna – in a dangerous situation with us as the only backup.”

“Well, I tried the Pentagon, but Margaret’s line was busy.”

BJ ticks off another finger. “They’re walking into a situation with a lot of unknowns. And we’re dealing with a rogue CIA agent whose tracker has been sitting at the bottom of the Potomac for the last three hours, and whose current whereabouts are unknown. Have I got it right?”

Hawk makes a face. “Yes.”

BJ grins. 

“You always know how to put the right spin on a disaster,” Hawk tells him, shooting the paper plane in his direction. 

“Well, it’s… eleven-thirty just now. When you knew Flagg, did you know him to be a particularly punctual fellow?”

“Flagg? Usually he’s there early, with a whole battalion on his ass.”

“Well, the scuttlebutt is sound,” BJ says reassuringly, as he taps his fingers on the desk. “It's Margaret after all.”

“A gifted woman, Beej, in the streets _ and _in the-”

“Yeah, yeah, focus, Casanova.” BJ shakes his head. “What could we have overlooked?”

“We’re not as prepared as we were,” Hawk says. “With all the times the plan’s changed.”

BJ sends the airplane flying back at him. “We got our information from Margaret, who’s been a good source for intel before.”

“God knows I wouldn’t trust anyone else,” Hawk agrees. “In fact, it’s no secret that we don’t trust anyone else. But…”

“But?” BJ asks, prompting the realization he can see written on Hawk’s face.

“_But _ we don’t know where Margaret got _ her _information from.”

And then they both turn to the monitor at the same time, realizing. “Oh _ fuck_.”

_ “... maybe you two have been set up.” _

“I’d recognize that slimy voice anywhere,” Hawk says, alarmed. “That’s Flagg!”

“Shit,” BJ mutters, typing rapidly. “And no visual-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hawk says. “We’re going in.”

“We’re _ what?” _

“We gotta get in there and-”

“And what? Hawk, this isn’t one of your crusades, you can’t just waltz in there! You could get Donna and Charles killed, not to mention yourself! We can’t risk it.”

“But we have to do something!” Hawk protests. 

“We can't storm in there,” BJ says. “Too many variables, too many unknowns. We don’t even know if Flagg’s alone!”

“But-”

“I told you, I'm not risking it! I’m not risking the chance that he’ll harm them… or you, if it comes to that.”

“But if he kills them-”

“He won’t,” BJ reassures him, but the grim reality is in his eyes: _ not yet anyway_. “Hawk, what’s more important to you, saving them or nailing Flagg?”

Hawk doesn’t hesitate. “Them. Obviously them.”

“Okay.” BJ sighs, and turns the volume up again. “Just… remember that, okay?”

“Okay.”

They wait a few more minutes, both trying to pretend that they're not terrified, both holding their breath.

It's terrible. 

“Beej?” Hawk asks after a minute. 

“Yeah?”

“We're going back to antiquities after this.”

He can tell BJ is smiling. “Deal.”

_ “It’s a shame, really. Wasting a pretty face on a nosy bitch who thinks she can stand up to a man.” _

_ “Go _ fuck _ yourself.” _

“That’s our girl,” Hawk mumbles to himself.

“If he says one more thing about Donna… I’m gonna go in there and beat the hell out of him.”

“At this point, you’ll have to get in line.”

_ “But I wouldn’t hesitate to blow her brains out… after having a bit of fun with her, of course.” _

“Beej-”

“I know, I _ know_, just let me think for a second.”

“Think all you want, it won’t change the fact that Charles and Donna’s status is about to be changed to terminally dead! What are our chances of getting in there?”

“It’s not a number you want to hear,” BJ says, looking up. “Let’s just quote Potter and say a snowball’s chance in Guam. Shit!”

“What what what?”

Beej gestures to the speakers, which are now only emitting a crackly static. “You know what that is?”

“The musical equivalent of a polar bear in a snowstorm?”

“Damn it Hawk, it’s not funny! We just lost all contact with them!”

“But their tracker is intact, right?” Hawk asks, and when he doesn’t get an answer, he asks, _ “Right?" _

“I dunno,” BJ says, fingers flying across the keyboard as he glances at several of his monitors. “Bringing it up now.”

The familiar grid of DC appears on the map, and Hawk sighs in relief, because the tracker indicator is up there, blinking steadily, in-

“Shit,” BJ murmurs again, zooming in. “Shit!”

Hawk is confused. “Beej, aren't you being a little melodramatic? They're right where we want them to be!”

“Yeah?” BJ asks. “They wanted to reenact that scene from _ Forrest Gump?” _

“Huh?”

BJ jabs a finger at the screen. “Why are they in the middle of the Reflecting Pool?”

All the colour drains from Hawkeye’s face. “Oh _ fuck.” _

“We gotta go after them,” BJ says, unlocking the safe and pulling out his sidearm. “And we have to go now.”

“But what about all that stuff you said about not rushing in?” Hawk asks, unnerved by the gun. 

“You'll notice I don't practice what I preach.” BJ passes over the other holster. “Here.”

“Oh no no no, I'm not taking that- those kill people! I'm not in this business to make a killing!”

“Look, Hawk, another time I'll listen- hell I'll even agree. But Charles and Donna need us _ now_. So just take the fucking gun, and if you have to use it, you better fucking mean it.”

BJ opens the door, and jumps onto the pavement, leaving Hawkeye to stare after him open-mouthed, before following. 

“You're a real hardass when you want to be, you know that?”

“Kindness isn't gonna save our friends,” BJ replies, and takes off into the crowd.

Even though they run the two blocks, by the time they get to the Memorial, there’s no sign of Donna, Charles, _ or _Flagg. 

“We’re too late,” Hawk says hopelessly, looking around. “We’re too fucking late.”

“No,” BJ says. “It’s not over yet.”

“What are you gonna do, sniff em out? You'd need Max's nose for _that, _Beej."

“I'm gonna call Metro, have them put out an all-points bulletin.”

Hawkeye bends over, nauseated and dizzy, trying to ground himself. “We've got no leads, no clue where he's headed, no way to track him… we don’t even know what kind of car he’s driving! How the hell are we supposed to do this?”

“The same way we do everything, Hawk- on a wing and a fucking prayer.” 

“We gotta find them, Beej.”

“I know,” BJ says helplessly. “And we will.”

Hawkeye looks up at him, skeptical. “Yeah? We better, or I will personally give Flagg a tour of the business end of a howitzer.” 

“Where are you going to get a howitzer?”

Hawk makes a face. “One of the band units. The army still has those right?”

“Why would a band unit need a howitzer?”

“Works great on hecklers,” Hawk says, massaging the stitch in his side. “Any great ideas?”

“Track their cell phones.”

“We don’t even know if they still have them.”

“Well, it’s worth a shot,” BJ says, already turning. “C’mon. We better get back, call Metro, and update Potter.”

Hawk, with one last glance back at the memorial, catches sight of a cherry blossom, but before he can grab it, it vanishes on the breeze.


	17. Sunday, 3:10 PM

When Charles drifts back into consciousness, he does so to find his head throbbing with pain. 

Though his eyes are squeezed tightly shut, the scant light that filters through is enough to cause pinwheels of colour to dance on the inside of his eyelids, each one dazzling in its agony. 

He wonders for a moment, in a vague sort of way, just exactly how much he’s had to drink to produce this sort of physical reaction. He doesn’t need to ask _ what _he’s been drinking; it’s clearly a sake punch hangover, clearly the result of another Pierce-Hunnicutt party (and his own fault for teaching them to make it).

He’s just reaching out to pull Donna in closer, the two of them curled up together in bed, and he’s already bracing himself for the teasing lecture he’s about to receive, followed by the graceful capitulation when she’ll deign to snuggle with him, and oh the world outside can wait-

When instead of Donna’s warmth, his reaching fingers find only the cold of metal.

“Donna.”

The word, barely a whisper, reverberates inside his skull like the bells of Notre Dame, making the pain worse, and with each echo, a new and devastating memory tears through his mind. 

Sitting up is enough to make him feel dizzy and sick, clutching his head in his hands, and when he manages to peel his eyes open, it’s almost worse.

Doing so reveals he’s alone, sitting in the near-darkness, in what appears to be the back of a van. The metal floor is cold beneath him, and it’s impossible to tell how much time has passed by the light that filters in.

“Donna,” he croaks again, trying to rise. “Donna!”

There’s someone pounding on the panel separating the front of the van from the back, and the sound reverberates in the very marrow of Charles’s bones, and he sinks back to his hands and knees, dizzy and trying not to lose the contents of his stomach. 

The feeling goes away after a few seconds, leaving him clammy and weak, trying to breathe deeply, the anxiety leaving him with a hollow feeling in his belly. “Let me out of here. Please. Let me _ out!” _

“Quiet down back there!”

“Where am I?” Charles demands, thumping a weak fist against the panel. “Where’s Donna? Where is she? What have you done with her, you animal?”

“I said shut up!”

“You have no right to keep me here like a prisoner!” Charles says, and in desperation, throws himself against the panel, trying to ignore how doing so makes his head spin. “What’ve you done with Donna?”

There’s silence for a second, and then a low chuckle that chills him to the bone. “None of your business. Just consider yourself lucky you’re not her.”

“I swear, if you animals lay one finger on her, I’ll tear you _ limb from limb, _and then have the pieces arrested!”

“I said shut up!” Pratt yells back. “Shut up or I’ll make you shut up!”

“You’ll regret this! I swear to God you’ll regret this for the rest of your very short life!” Charles hits the panel again, more weakly this time, and slumps down against it, mumbling, “You’re nothing more than a _ toady _for the real villain anyway.”

Then the sound of the door opening filters through, the slamming of a vehicle door, and the trudging of footsteps around the side of the van.

Charles crouches in the near-darkness, his heart pounding, and then the door opens. “I said for you to-”

Charles screams, a terrible animal noise that tears from his throat as he launches himself at Pratt, knocking him back into the dirt, the wind knocked out of him but it doesn’t matter. 

The two of them wrestle in the dirt, exchanging frenzied blows, and all Charles can see is red, his fists slamming into the other man’s body until they ache, breathing heavily as he does, all his other ills forgotten. 

“Please!” Pratt chokes out, his face bloody.

Charles doesn’t listen to his pleas, is beyond hearing, because all he can think of as he hits Pratt is Donna’s cry of anguish as the gun came down, of Pratt and Flagg leering at her like she was a choice cut of steak, of Flagg’s hand groping under her skirt, and it’s a fiery rage that has taken him.

Then Charles is collapsing into the dirt himself, his whole body aching and clammy like he’s recovering from a flu, Pratt sprawled unconscious beside him. Charles’s knuckles are scraped raw and blood-stained, leaving him stunned as he catches his breath.

Finally, he sits up, crawls over to Pratt’s prone body, and with shaking hands, rifles through the man’s pockets, finding nothing more than a pocket knife in one pocket, and then-

“Oh,” Charles says, when in the next pocket he checks, he finds his own cell phone, and he could cry from relief.

He turns it on, already frantically dialling for help, smudging the phone with bloody fingerprints, when he notices the tiny ‘no service’ icon in the corner of the screen.

The knots of anxiety tighten around his heart and his throat, choking him briefly.

He looks around, phone still clutched in hand. He’s surrounded by trees, the air alive with birdsong, and ahead of him there’s a gravel path.

When he manages to stand, the nausea returns with a vengeance, and he has to double over, panting, his eyes screwed tight, as if that will somehow stop the world from spinning.

It goes away as he starts to walk, leaving Pratt behind in the dirt, his muscles still tight, his heart still pounding, his body primed with adrenaline.

Until it truly hits him what he’s just done, what has happened.

All he can see when he closes his eyes is Donna, and all he can hear is that last cry of anguish as the gun came down and cracked over his head, and he’d _ left her alone _with those animals, and then the panic is swelling in him, making it hard to breathe.

“Consider yourself lucky that you’re not her,” Pratt had said.

His knees go weak, forcing him to sit back down in the dirt, his hands buried in his hands as his mind offers up fragments of memory, each one more damning than the last.

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, oh _ god_, Donna could be hurt, could be dying-

He tries to take a deep breath, tries to rein in the panic but it breaks free anyway, trampling him under hooves of regret and fear.

And no matter how hard he tries to breathe, the anxiety wraps around his throat and chokes him, leaving him unable to do anything but gasp.

_ Donna_. 

His stomach is hollow, and he clings to a ledge above the gaping hole within himself, as the panic claws as his feet, drags him down, entices him into its waiting arms.

Donna is alone with them and it’s his fault.

His eyes sting with tears, his whole body trembling as he curls up and waits for it to pass, the way it always does eventually.

The fear is potent enough to choke him as he presses his face into his knees, his throat aching with fear, his whole body frozen in place even as his heart gallops wildly within his chest.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts, but eventually he is able to raise his head again, to breathe deeply, no longer caught in a panicky free fall.

“F-Focus Charles,” he tells himself, and as ridiculous as it feels and sounds to talk to himself, his voice still raw and shaky, it is also grounding in the wake of his panic attack. “You need to focus.”

He rubs his hand over his face, his muscles aching from being in one place too long, and is not entirely shocked to find his face wet with tears, though it gives him a wobble when his fingers come away from his temple streaked alarmingly with red.

Taking further inventory, he discovers that aside from the throbbing head, raw knuckles, sore face, and waves of nausea that could light the city of Toledo, he’s quite alright.

Until he discovers the tiny red pinprick in the crook of his left arm, and a fragment of memory surfaces of waking just long enough after the gun came down, for the invasive scent of rubbing alcohol and the sharp pinch of a needle.

A sedative, likely.

He manages to get back on his feet and keep walking, slowly, looking around for any sign of Donna.

“Donna!” he manages to call out, before he trips over something.

Looking down, expecting to see an outstretched root, he instead finds a shoe, lying on the path, and knows at once that it’s Donna’s.

With trembling hands, Charles reaches down and picks it up, his heart pounding in his ears.

He clutches it to his chest, cradling it as if it were his own newborn child and not just a dirt-smeared high heel, trying to catch his breath.

Still holding it, he starts moving again, hoping and praying that he isn’t too late.

And then he gets an idea, pulling out his phone again. 

One bar.

His hands shake as he dials and then hits ‘call’ with bated breath.

It rings, on and on, and even though he strains his ears, he can’t pick out the sound of _ Bohemian Rhapsody _over the rustling leaves and birdsong.

Her voicemail kicks in, and cliche as it may be, tears spring to his eyes when he hears her voice, so blessedly normal and beloved.

_ “You’ve reached Parker. If this is agency business I suggest you call them instead. If this is personal, leave a message and I’ll avoid your call as soon as I’m in. Have a nice day.” _

There’s a beep, and he hits redial, frustration warring with hope within him.

And again.

He doesn’t know why he keeps doing it, when it is so obviously futile, but to give up would be to give up on Donna, and he cannot do that, not when he promised her, _ he promised _to keep her safe.

Then he hears it, through the trees, the faint sound of music, and it doesn’t even occur to him as likely that it could be a trap, because he hears the sound of Freddie Mercury’s voice and all his bodily ills aside, he tucks the phone in his pocket and takes off like a shot, veering off the path and into the woods.

He staggers as fast as he can in the direction of the music, weaving in and out of the trees like a drunk, barely dodging low-hanging branches in his haste as he crashes through the underbrush.

He moves with all the subtlety and grace of a stampeding elephant, but he doesn’t care. He isn’t trying to hide and if he is the cavalry, at least Flagg will know he is coming and know a reckoning is at hand. 

Because all he can think about is Donna, and how the first thing she’d do is rescue him if their positions were reversed.

He trips again, this time over an actual root, and tumbles awkwardly through a patch of bushes, sprawling painfully on the ground, and the music is louder now though it most certainly isn’t _ Bohemian Rhapsody _-

“Winchester,” Flagg sounds… almost surprised. 

Charles looks up from where he’s fallen, and sees Flagg staring at him with a look of confusion and something close to fear on his face.

His one arm is firmly wrapped around Donna’s neck, the muzzle of his gun pressed to her side.

Her cell phone is lying in the moss a few feet away.

“Flagg,” Charles growls. 

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again anytime soon, Winchester, but it’s nice of you to join us.”

Charles only has eyes for Donna, not even bothering to listen to Flagg. “They didn’t harm you, did they? You’re- you’re alright?”

She nods, though she doesn’t look it. There’s a dark purple bruise on her temple, a new cut going right through her eyebrow still bloody.

“I look real tough, don’t I?” she teases.

The blood from her nose has dried, a streak of rusty red against her skin. Her dress is torn in several places (and here, anxiety chokes him again), and her one foot is bare, her bright purple nail polish almost obscene against the moss of the forest.

“I- I found your shoe,” Charles says, as he gets to his feet.

“Good,” she says, relieved. “Max will kill me if I lose another pair-”

“Hey! That’s enough out of you,” Flagg says, jabbing her. “Does this look like a party to you?”

“If it was, you’d have better manners,” she retorts, wincing as he jabs her again.

“Shut it.”

“Or what, you’ll poke me again?” she challenges.

“Donna-” Charles tries, but stops when the gun is pointed at him instead, the shoe falling from his hands.

“Don’t even think about it, _ lover boy_.”

Charles swallows hard. The gun is enough to turn his knees to water, but Donna is watching him, and there is so much he still needs to apologize for, so much he still needs to say.

She just gives him a nod and tries to smile, and it scares him how certain he is, because it all clicks into place, what he’s going to do, what he has to do.

He slowly raises his hands in surrender, as he starts to move. “Flagg, please, you don’t-”

“Don’t move!” Flagg jerks, and the gun is suddenly pressed to Donna’s temple.

“No, no, no, there’s- there’s no need for violence!”

“Besides, what good will it do?” Donna asks, and he tries to beg without words, tries to let her know what his plan is so that she will not do this, but she is still herself. “We already know everything.”

“Is that right?”

She laughs. “Everything. We know _ everything _. You lose.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I wasn’t planning on leaving you alive then.”

“Don’t!” Charles cries. “Don’t! Don’t shoot her, _ please_, I’ll- I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

Charles forgets how to breathe for a second, because they’re frozen in this ridiculous stand-off, but there’s still a gun to Donna’s head, and there’s no cavalry coming, it’s just him, it’s _ just him_.

“Yes,” he says decisively, impulsively. “Anything.”

“Alright,” Flagg says, and Charles relaxes for a second. It proves to be a mistake. “Say goodbye then.”

“No!” Charles yelps, a horrible animal sound wrenching its way up his throat. “Please, no, you can’t, you _ can’t_, I’ll do anything! I can get you anything! Power? Money? I assure you, if it’s money you’re after, I can deliver. Name your price.”

Donna is watching him, wide-eyed, and he's never felt so afraid, and it's not even for himself (though the gun could so easily be turned on him). "Chuck-”

“Let her go. It’s me you want,” he tells Flagg, “it’s me, it’s all me, you have to take me, I mean- I mean look at her, she’s not a threat, you said it yourself, she’s just a woman.”

Flagg blinks. “I’m not convinced here, Charlie. You forget- I’ve seen what she can do.”

This sends chills down Charles’s spine, and all he can see is the torn fabric of her dress, and he can barely choke out the next words. "Which one will look better to your superiors?" 

"I don't work for anyone!"

"Then what will be more satisfying to _ you?"_ Charles asks, one last desperate gamble. "One silly little _ girl _or a Winchester?"

“Is that what you’re banking on?” Flagg scoffs. “It’s been fun playing with you, Charlie, it really has, but the only reason you’re not dead right now is because Pratt happened to let slip who your sister is.”

“Who… my sister is,” Charles says, and for a second he is frozen in place, ice cold, because _ Honoria_.

“Pratt seemed to think that that sister of yours would be awfully _ broken _up about it if her big brother vanished… tried to tell me I’d get a good price for you. And you know, after thinking about it, he’s right. This pretty one here though… is worth nothing.”

“So let her go,” Charles begs, “please, _ please_. Do anything to me, kill me, take me hostage, I’ll come with you, I’ll do anything, just- just _ let her go_.”

Flagg blinks, surprised. “Your life means that little to you?”

Charles swallows hard. “Hers means that much.”

Flagg’s gun lowers a little. “Why?”

“Don’t make me say it,” he begs. “Please, just- my life for hers. You said it yourself- she’s worth nothing to you. Take me. Please.”

Flagg hesitates, and Donna, his brave and foolish Donna, takes her chance as soon as the gun isn’t pressed to her temple. She may not have her katanas, but her eyes are full of fire, and it’s in one fluid motion that she spins around to attack Flagg, all of it happening so fast and so slow at the same time. 

And then the gunshot echoes through the trees, and time stands still.


	18. Sunday, 3:31 PM

It’s so smooth, the way she practiced it in training, that she doesn’t even have to think. It’s simply reflex to pull her weapon from its hiding place and drive it up under Flagg’s collarbone, and for a second, victory lingers like the taste of iron in her mouth, as she knocks him to ground, the element of surprise on her side.

When the gun fires, the world shattering around her, her head whipping around at the tiny ragged gasp she hears, because-

_ No. _

Charles stares down in surprise at the neat little hole in his shirt for a second. “Oh.”

“Chuck!” she cries, almost a scream, and their eyes meet for just a second before he collapses.

For such a tall man, Charles crumples to the ground almost gracefully. She scrambles forward just in time to catch him, his momentum bringing them both down. 

Her knees sink into the soft dirt as she lowers him to the ground as gently as possible, clutching him to her-

_ No, no no no no, _she begs inside her head as she holds him. 

“Donna,” he says breathlessly, trying to cup her face in shaking hands as blood blossoms against the gaudy print of his shirt. “Oh God, Donna.”

“You _ idiot_,” she says helplessly, as she unbuttons the definitely ruined shirt, the bloodstain obscene against the cheerful Hawaiian pattern. “Oh you fucking idiot, what have you done? Where did he get you?”

“Chest. The chest. Oh _ God_, it hurts.”

She’s already probing at his chest, and it may be a clean shot, but her fingers are already slippery with his blood. All she can hear is a ringing in her ears as she tugs off the half-slip Max insisted she wear, not concerned with modesty, and presses it to the wound, her chest tight, because it’s not supposed to end like this, it can’t-

“Donna,” Charles says, grabbing her wrist, momentarily forcing her out of her panic. He tries to smile, as he reaches up with his other hand to cup her cheek, his fingers trembling. “Donna, I-”

“Don’t you dare, Chuck,” she warns him, her eyes blurring with tears. “I know what you’re trying to do, and _ don’t _ you fucking _ dare.” _

He strokes her hair, brushing it out of her face, his brow furrowed in concentration. “You lost your hair clip.”

“You think I care about the fucking hair clip?” she demands, the tears spilling over. “Fuck. It’s _ you _I’m worried about!”

“I am _ fine_,” he says, though his eyes are hazy with pain as he tries to smile. “Been told I do all my best w-work on my back anyhow. Donna, you _ must _listen-”

“Of course you’re not fine, you just got shot you fucking idiot! You’re dying for all I know.”

“Can’t be dying,” he says with a harsh rattling bark of a laugh. “You’d be nicer."

But she’s the one feeling him bleed out against her hands, his pulse rapid, more of his blood flowing with every second, despite her best efforts, and- “God, where’s my phone?” 

“Here. Take mine.” He passes it over, blood smeared across the display. “Too bad it w-wasn’t in the other pocket. Might’ve saved me.”

The fact that he’s still anticipating her every moment, even with a hole in his chest, nearly breaks her. 

“Press your hands over the wound,” she tells him. “I need you to put pressure on it, okay? I’m calling for help, but I need you to-”

“Donna,” he says, his voice soft. “I understand. It’s… It’s alright.”

Her fingers shake as she dials 9-1-1.

All she can hear, all she can focus on is the shallow sound of Charles’s breathing.

“Please,” she begs the operator. “Please, you have to come, my- my _ partner_, he’s been shot in the chest!”

“Ma’am, it’s okay, please relax, I just need you to stay on the line, and tell me where you are.”

“I don’t… I don’t know, I don’t _ fucking _know,” she says, shoving her hair out of her face with bloody fingers as she looks around. “A-A state park I think? Rock Creek Park, maybe. Just- please. Please, you have to-”

“Ma’am, please calm down, we’ve got a fix on your location.”

“Please hurry, you can’t let him die, you _ can’t_.”

And she’s so tired, so weary and bone-tired, the phone slides from her hand unnoticed. 

Then Charles is taking her hand, her dirty blood-smeared hand, pressing a kiss to it, brushing his thumb across her lifeline (when his own is fading fast), and he’s wheezing a little so it takes her a second to recognize the Ancient Greek. _ “Dearest, sweetest… best of friends… you know you are all these things to me.” _

It’s barely a whisper but it’s enough to break her. She grabs onto his hand tightly, the dam almost breaking. “You’re going to make me cry, you silly man. You _ and _fucking Euripides.”

And then she is crying, overwhelmed, clutching Charles to her, as he strokes her hair with shaking fingers. 

“Shh,” he murmurs. “It’s alright.”

The world is backwards and upside down, and a watery laugh hiccups out of her, because she’s supposed to comfort _ him _, he’s the one who’s just been shot. 

“You can’t _ die _for me, Chuck, I won’t allow it.”

“Why not?” he asks, seemingly amused. “Worth it.”

“You can’t leave me. I won’t let you leave me, because I love you, Charles,” she says desperately, his given name a prayer on her lips, and it’s never been more true. “You hear that? I love you. I love you, and I can’t let you die without knowing it.”

His eyes are fixed on her face, luminous and full of emotion. 

“And if you don’t…” she falters at last. 

“I do,” he says gently, a vow. “I _ do_, Donna. I do, and I have and I will.”

“You-”

“I love you, Donna,” he says, and then he’s crying too. The helicopter blades whir in the distance, as she presses her shaking hands to his chest, keeping the pressure, as if she can keep him alive through sheer will. “I love you so very much.”

“Then you can’t leave me, okay? Promise me.”

“I-I promise.” He looks up at her, and the way he looks at her (the way he always has, she thinks as her heart breaks)- it’s like she hung the stars. “But Donna-”

She doesn’t want to hear his goodbyes, so she leans down, despite the awkwardness of attempting to keep pressure on the wound at the same time, and kisses him. After a surprised few seconds, he kisses her back, achingly tender considering the circumstances.

It’s only their second (technically third) kiss, but it could be their last, and she can’t pull away first.

She tries to smile when she pulls away. “Tell me about dinner.”

He blinks. “Dinner?”

“Well, you did _ ask _me, you know,” she teases. “Tell me about it. Where would we go?”

“I…” he coughs. “There’s this... quiet, _ intimate _little Japanese restaurant out in Georgetown…. Almost… like the ones along the… the Ginza. Would’ve wanted to take you...”

“You mean you _ will _take me there,” she corrects gently. “Go on, what would we eat?”

“Sushi,” he says. “Fresh... octopus.”

“With sake?”

He nods, weaker. “I’d have... have liked to see Tokyo... w-with you.”

“You will, Chuck,” she promises, trying to keep her voice from wobbling. “Don’t think you’re getting out of our fake honeymoon that easily.”

He chokes on a laugh, short of breath. 

“What else?” she asks, trying to keep him distracted, still feeling the heat of his blood left to cool on her fingers. 

“After dinner… walk through the cherry blossoms. Properly.”

“Properly?”

“Just… just us.”

“I’d love to just be us.”

“And then... I would kiss you. Enthusiastically. And-”

His lips, tinged a deathly pale blue, keep moving as the helicopter sets down beside him, but his words are lost in the whirring of the blades (and she doesn't want to try and spend the rest of her life trying to figure out what he's trying to tell her). “What?”

“You'll have to… wait until dinner to… to find out,” he gasps, and she nearly laughs.

“Excuse me ma’am, we have to get him- you’re injured.”

Donna looks up into the unfamiliar yet kind face. “It’s not my blood, it’s his. Please, you have to-”

“Don’t worry, he’s in good hands. But you are gonna have to let us work so we can take care of him, alright?”

“I can’t leave him, please, he’s my…” All the words she’s used to describe Charles until now suddenly seem so small, but the word bursts forth, sharp enough to leave her ragged. “Please.”

The paramedic looks her over, and then nods. “Alright. We’d better get him on the chopper. You his wife?”

“I’m his…” She swallows, glancing over at him. “His partner.”

The paramedic shrugs. “Close enough. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I won’t tell if you don’t, okay honey?”

“Thank you,” she says, relief coursing through her. “Thank you so much.” 

“What’s this?” Charles asks, struggling to sit up. “It took my being shot to turn you into a gracious hostess?”

The paramedic chuckles. “For someone who’s just been shot, you’ve sure got a great sense of humor. But just lie back and let us take care of you, okay, honey?”

“Great sense of humor… lousy timing” Charles says, weakly grinning, but it turns into a choked-off cry of pain as the paramedics lift him onto the stretcher, Donna’s hand clutched tightly in his. “Donna.”

“It’s okay,” she reassures him, smoothing a hand over his head. “It’s okay. I’m not letting go, you hear me?”

He shakes his head, his voice hoarse, his lips bloody. “If you won’t… I won’t.”

“Alright,” the paramedic says with a smile. “Let’s go.”

“Just don’t make me let go of him,” Donna begs.

The paramedic nods and gestures to the side of the stretcher “No way, honey, you’re fine. Just stay out of the way. And remember us in your Yelp review, okay?”

“Four stars,” she promises.

“Three,” Charles croaks between them. “No dinner.”

“What’s your name, honey?” the paramedic asks Donna as they load Charles into the helicopter. “I don’t want to keep calling you ma’am if I don’t have to.”

“I’m Donna, and this is Charles-”

“Cuddles,” he corrects with a giggle.

The paramedic grins. “Cuddles, eh? That shock is some good stuff. It’s a pleasure, Mr. Cuddles.”

“Oh… just… just Cuddles. Mister… my father.”

Donna’s mouth drops open in surprise. “You _ never _make this many jokes when you’re not dying.” 

He grins, eyebrows raised, and she gets the message.

“No, darling, I’m not shooting you more often.”

“Well, I’m Nurse Bayliss. You and your boyfriend Cuddles here can just call me Ginger. And that strong silent type over there is Oliver.”

“Twisted,” Charles says around a giggle.

“Is he always like this?” Oliver asks, looking at him. 

“He’s usually more… stoic,” Donna explains, a hysterical laugh bubbling up inside her. “And you haven’t even drugged him yet.”

“Well he'll be gettin’ it soon,” Ginger says, nodding to the I.V. with a grin.

“By the way, pilot says we’re about ready to take off,” Oliver adds.

“Good.” As Ginger looks Donna and Charles over, she asks, “You wanna tell me what kind of party y’all got invited to that ended with him getting shot?”

“Well…” Donna sighs. “It’s a bit hard to explain… but there was a traitor we were trying to catch. He got the drop on us, and I thought it would be smart to tackle him while he was holding a loaded gun. That’s about where you come in.”

“What kind of gun?” Oliver asks.

“A… A nine millimeter, I think.”

“Exit wound?”

“No, I… I don’t think so.”

“Only… only one extra hole,” Charles manages between them, and Ginger grins.

“Boy, he must be fun at parties.”

“I met him at a party, actually,” Donna says, grinning at the memory. She glows warm at the thought as she tucks herself into the corner of the cramped chopper, by Charles’s head. “He was like this then too.”

“Really?”

“Really. He let me paint smiley faces on his kneecaps.”

“Now that sounds like a good time.”

“I didn’t-” Charles is frowning, confused. “We… didn’t. Can’t… have.”

“You don’t remember?” Donna asks, incredulous. 

“No,” he continues. “First day… office. Crash. Papers… everywhere.”

Donna almost laughs at the absurdity of it all. “No, Chuck, that… I can’t believe it- all this time and you don’t remember meeting at that party?”

Charles shakes his head, confused. “No… Must’ve… the sake punch.”

“That's nasty stuff,” Ginger says. “How much did you have?”

“Two… three… bowls?” Charles says, and he grins a little as Donna and Ginger both laugh. 

“So… where are we going?” Donna asks. “Which hospital?”

“General General,” Ginger explains. “A damned silly name, but a great hospital, and a crack surgical team. Takes about twenty minutes to fly there.”

“And do you work there or are you just a… freelance paramedic?” Donna asks. 

“I'm a critical care nurse,” Ginger says. “Frontline medicine is sorta a specialty of mine. I've been riding with Oliver here for a few years now.”

“We tried to tell her it was an upgrade from the army,” Oliver says. “Haven't convinced her yet.”

“The army?” Donna asks, surprised. 

Ginger shrugs. “I've seen some action.”

“Now that's an understatement if ever I heard one,” Donna says in admiration. 

What do you say, Cinderella?” Ginger asks Charles. “Ready for the ball?”

But Charles’s attention is fixed solely on Donna. “I’m… dying?”

“Of course not,” Donna assures him. “Silly old bear.”

“But Donna-”

“And ruin all our hard work?” Ginger asks, as she and Oliver work on him. “I don’t think so, honey. You’re stuck here with the rest of us poor fools.”

“Already... dead?” Charles asks.

Donna smiles, taking his hand and pressing it against her chest. “Can you feel my heartbeat?” 

“Yes.”

“Well,” she says, reaching out and placing a gentle hand on his bare chest. “You’ve got one too.”

His eyes are brilliant, fixed on her. “I do.”

“You’re not dead.” She leans in and kisses his forehead. “Please try and keep it that way.”

He nods, his eyes sliding shut, and she wants to join him, wants to be blissfully asleep, but she still remembers his blood flowing freely, so instead she memorizes his face, just in case she doesn’t get to spend a lifetime getting to know it, watches the hypnotic rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, watching intently in case it stops, knowing that if she looks away for even a second, she’ll lose him. 

_ I love you_, she thinks, her fingers caressing his hand, her turn to brush her thumb over his lifeline.

“Staring,” he mumbles after a few minutes, jolting her out of her trance, and his mouth curves into a smile as his eyes open. 

“I was just…” she tries to explain, but any explanation seems silly at best. 

He squeezes her hand, his eyes fixed on her the whole time. “You’re... beautiful.”

“And you’re full of morphine,” she responds gently. 

“Every day… you’ve… gotten lovelier.”

“He’s right,” Ginger says. “You’re a looker. Isn’t she, Oliver?”

Oliver grins, but doesn’t say a word. 

“I’m only me.”

“Only you… is who I want.”

“Please, Chuck, I-"

“Had to say it.”

_ At least once_, is what he doesn’t say; it is what she hears. 

There’s a brief silence while the paramedics work, and then Charles starts singing, softly, almost to himself. “_Some Argentines… with… out means… do it…” _

It should be beautiful, but Charles is struggling with every breath, and the tears are falling fast down Donna’s face, dripping onto the edge of the stretcher.

“_People _ …. _ say in Boston, even…” _Charles tries, his voice barely a whisper now, just as they touch down on the roof of the hospital with a bump.

“It’s alright, darling,” she promises, because he’s too breathless and weak to continue. “I can take over. You rest.”

He manages a fraction of a nod, his eyes shut, deathly pale.

“Donna,” Oliver says, grabbing her arm. “That cut of yours is gonna need stitches.”

“Don’t worry, Ollie, I’ve got her,” Ginger says, winking at Donna. “We’ll have ourselves a grand old time, won’t we honey?”

“Sure,” Donna agrees, relieved.

There’s a team waiting for them outside on the roof, all of them talking at once. 

“Take care of yourself,” Oliver calls to her as she climbs out, accompanied by Ginger as the doctors pull Charles’s stretcher towards the elevator. 

Nobody pays the woman in a bloody Harvard sweatshirt and one shoe any mind as she goes with them, Charles’s hand clutched firmly in hers the whole time.

“What can you tell me about his condition, Ginger?” one of the doctors asks in a rather pronounced drawl as the elevator descends. “And make it snappy, we don’t got all day.”

“Stable, doctor. He took a bullet to the chest, probably punctured a lung. He was pretty shocky for a bit, let me tell you, but he’ll be okay. He’s in good hands.”

“Best hands in Washington,” the doctor says with a grin. “Thanks honey, you’re one in a million. Who’s the broad?”

Donna realizes after a second that the doctor is grinning at her. “I’m his partner. And I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you are,” he says, giving her the once-over. 

“Somebody ought to look her over too,” Ginger says pointedly. “But she’s a stubborn one.”

“I should get Henry to check ya out, all the same,” the doctor says. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Donna.”

“Well, Donna, your buddy here is one lucky fella, landing on my table.” He looks up at Ginger. “Can ya go get Henry while we prep this guy?”

“Charles.”

“Huh?”

“His name is Charles,” Donna says sharply.

“Well,” the doctor says, looking down at the stretcher where Charles is asleep (or pretending to be). “Hiya Chuckles.”

One eye opens resentfully, and then closes again, and Donna almost laughs. As Ginger and the surgeon chat about what happened, she stands, tired enough to just let the words wash over her, not fighting it, too tired to do anything but clutch Charles’s hand, anchoring her. She can’t help but wonder, watching him, who is the lifeline for whom. 

The elevator doors open, and one of the nurses hurries over. “He’s already prepping, we better get this GSW in fast.”

“Right, honey,” the surgeon says easily. He turns to Donna. “We’ll take it from here.”

They wheel him out onto the floor, and the idea that Donna will have to leave him makes her weak at the knees, the fear suddenly back and choking her. 

“Please,” she gasps out. “Can you give us a minute?”

“Sure thing.” 

He turns around as she leans down to press one final, desperate, gentle kiss to Charles’s mouth. “I love you, Charles.”

She squeezes his hand once and watches as his eyes flutter open. "My Donna… _ anassa kata.” _

She holds his hand until the last possible second, watches his face as his fingers slide from her grasp, until she’s left alone in an empty hallway.

“Donna!”

“Jesus Christ, Donna!”

She doesn't turn around, too busy watching - because the second she turns, she'll lose him, Orpheus and Eurydice in a too-bright hospital hallway underworld - until the doors swing shut. 

And then Hawkeye and BJ are surrounding her, arms wrapping around her, and she finally lets herself cry. 

And worst of all, she let go. 


	19. Wednesday, 10:31 AM

Donna doesn’t know what inspires her to do it.

All she wants is to draw Charles back to the land of the living, for her presence to be the lyre of Orpheus, leading him through the shadows and back to her. 

It’s been three days already.

Three days of no response from Charles - at least no response that Donna understands, though the nurses have been in and out like bees in a hive, their buzz of medical jargon and significant looks washing over her - and she’s willing to try anything, no matter how desperate.

If she squints, she can pretend that she’s coming in late from work, an assessment running late into the night, had told him not to wait up for her, and any minute now he’ll open his eyes, give her a sleepy smile, and tug her in without a word.

But when she stops squinting, the dream falls away.

The world comes back into focus to reveal the drab hospital room, the machines that beep incessantly, and Charles (who hasn’t woken up, no matter what technical jargon the nurses use to explain his condition), is utterly still. 

It’s frighteningly like when they were in the back of Flagg’s van, Charles deathly still beside her except for the trickle of blood down his temple, and her watching - just like now - with bated breath for the rise and fall of his chest, terrified of it going still. 

Donna leans as far forward as she can in her chair, and studies his face, the way she has the past three days, smelling coffee and his aftershave even under the astringent sting of disinfectant.

She takes his hand in hers, brushing her thumb across his lifeline, before squeezing his hand, and wishing more than anything that he’d squeeze it back.

The thoughts of Orpheus are still pressing against the inside of her eyelids, and it gives her an idea. 

She clears her throat. “I’m sorry, darling, this may be a little rough, but... I promised I’d take it over for you, didn’t I?”

She strokes Charles’s hand gently, avoiding the IV, humming to herself for a few seconds to find the tune.

_ “Birds do it, bees do it… e-even educated fleas do it, let’s do it, let’s f-fall in love…” _

Her voice is rough, choked with tears and horribly out of tune, and all she can think of is Charles singing it, his lips blue as he faded away.

She manages to stumble through a few more lines, but Charles doesn’t wake up.

She wipes at her eyes. “Can’t you just wake up and shout at me for butchering this song already?”

She keeps singing, but her voice fades as she stumbles over the words, tears welling up in her eyes. _ “Some Argentines with-without means do it…” _

She tries valiantly to continue, the tears overflowing at last.

_ “People say in Boston, even beans do it…” _

Donna leans in to press a gentle kiss to the back of his hand, before finishing the line for him, just as she promised. _ “Let’s do it, let’s fall in love _.”

She rests her head on the edge of his bed, and then whispers very quietly, “Please come back to me, darling.”

*

When she dreams, it’s her and not Charles who is lost in the shadows, and a melody floats through the air like a beam of light, illuminating her way through the darkness, the sound of Charles singing, his voice tender, cracking every few words, shattering into starbursts of light.

_ “Folks in Siam do it, think of Siamese twins… Some Argentines without means do it..” _

And she’s awake, but she can’t be, because someone is stroking her hair and singing to her, and her eyes open.

It’s Charles.

_ “People say in Boston even beans do it,” _ he sings softly. _ “Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.” _

She sits up slowly, not believing it, not daring to, staring at Charles, _ her _Charles, who is smiling at her, with a look on his face so profoundly tender that it nearly breaks her heart.

And she can only scrape up one word, but it’s the only one that matters: his name. “... Chuck?” 

He takes in the sight of her, in clean clothes, but bloody and bruised and still smeared with dirt from their confrontation with Flagg, her forehead bandaged, her hair a rats nest of Medusa curls, and she’s almost embarrassed. 

When he speaks, his voice is hoarse like a forgotten lullaby. “Donna… you look like shit.”

The laugh swells up like a soap bubble, startling both of them with its intensity, but she can’t help it, because Charles is _ here _ and alive, and she doesn’t think she’s ever loved him more.

_ Oh yes_, she thinks, watching him, with the relief of sudden remembrance. _ I love you. _

She laughs with relief and exhaustion, tinged with hysteria as she throws herself at him, scrambling up on the bed, wrapping her arms around him and holding on tight.

He seems momentarily stunned, but then he’s hugging her back, holding her as close as possible.

In the space between them, she can hear his heartbeat.

She takes her first breath in days, whispering his name again. “Chuck.”

“I’ve got you, Donna,” he murmurs, his voice muffled in her hair. “I’ve got you. It’s alright.”

She sniffs, her eyes blurry with tears. “Are you sure you’re not dead?”

“Quite sure. Why do you ask? Am I showing signs of decay? Are my symphonies playing backwards?”  
“What?”

“Am I decomposing?” he asks, and she laughs, but it croaks out as a sob.

“You’re… you’re here, and you’re alive, but you… you sing in my dreams, Chuck,” she says, pulling away. “And when I woke up I thought...”

“Here,” he says, taking her hand in his, before pressing it to his chest. She can feel his heartbeat, steady under her palm, his life held in her hand, pressed against her lifeline. “Do you feel that?”

“Yes.”

“I do believe it’s my heartbeat.” A smile curves the corners of his mouth as he presses his palm to her chest, mirroring her. “You’ve got one too.”

“Fancy that,” she breathes.

They sit like that for a moment, hearts beating in the silence, and then he frowns. “I have to admit, Donna, this isn’t… _ exactly _how I pictured our reunion.”

“You had something better in mind?” she teases.

“I did. I…” he gives her an uncommonly shy look. “I asked you to dinner, right?”

“You did,” she says, and his heart is beating under her fingers. “And I said yes, because I’ve been waiting… a long time for you to ask.”

“But that wasn’t the only thing I said.” He stares at her. “Was it?”

“No, it… it wasn’t.”

He clears his throat. “I meant it, Donna. What I said. Out there. And it wasn’t just... it wasn’t just because I was dying.”

“You _ weren’t _dying-”

“No, Donna, please,” he cuts her off. “I _ was _dying. But I… I am fairly certain that I love you. I cannot imagine loving you more than I already do, whether or not I’m alive to do it. But…”

She swallows a lump in her throat. “But?”

“But I intend to have as many chances to find out as possible.”

“I meant it too,” she says softly, her eyes blurring again with tears. “I mean it. And to quote a wise man: I do, and I have and I will… if you want me.”

_ “God _ yes.” His voice cracks with emotion, and they both laugh, until their eyes meet, and they both lean in. Charles cups her face in his hands, so devastatingly tender as he kisses her, and while their last kiss tasted of iron and fear, _ this _ is hope, tender and bittersweet, almost like a first kiss.

He pulls away, looking at her as though he’s looking for answers, and whatever he sees in her expression is clearly what he’s looking for, and he smiles. “What are you thinking?”

“How I… I want- no, I _ need _ to touch you,” she blurts out, and he blinks, making her backtrack. “I mean- fuck. I… if that’s okay?”

He nods, slowly.

It feels as though they’re both holding their breath as she cups his face in her hands, her touch gentle on his cheekbones, light on his temples. She brushes over the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, savouring each one, before touching the stubble that roughens his jaw and cheeks, blurring his features around the edges. She brushes her thumb over the lines around his mouth, before brushing it lightly over his lips, which curl into a slight smile under her touch, and any moment now the spell will break.

“What are you thinking?” he asks again, softly, as she runs her hands over his shoulders, one hand sliding down to press against his heart, feeling it beat under her hand and giving thanks for every beat.

And it seems so absurd that this is something she is allowed to do, that she is allowed to keep this wonderful, glorious man, and he is alive and she loves him so very much.

_ “Behold,” _ she quotes gently. _ “A man.” _

“Oh.” He turns pink. “In this disreputable state? Hardly.”

“Oh, say that again.”

“I beg your pardon?” He’s mystified.

_ “Hahhhdly. _ I just… missed hearing that. Missed hearing you.”

_ “Hahhdly _likely,” he teases, and just like that, the urge to laugh dissolves.

“Oh Chuck,” she whispers, and he must see it in her face. “Oh God, Chuck, I thought…”

And to her horror, tears are welling up in her eyes again. 

“I know,” he says quietly. 

“I’ve just- I’ve been so fucking _ scared _ that I’d never- that I’d never hear your voice, or see you smile, or- or- _ God, _Chuck, I don’t want to lose a single thing about you.”

Overwhelmed, she buries her head in his chest, trying not to let the maelstrom of guilt and fear sweep her away as Charles holds her. And then, even as he adjusts his grip, he shifts in bed, hissing through his teeth in pain. “Donna?”

“What?” she asks, pulling away nervously. Suppose she’s done something? “Should I get a nurse? Or- or a doctor?”

“No. Stay. Please.”

“But you’re hurting-”

“Well. I’m _ hardly _going to be in peak condition, am I? I was very recently shot after all.” The smile fades. “What exactly… is my prognosis?”

“A doctor would better be able to answer that,” she dismisses.

“But-”

“Better than I would, because they won’t tell me anything,” she says flatly.

“What?” He’s baffled. “Why?”

“Because, Chuck, I’m not a family member. I’m not even your emergency contact. But as far as I know… Ginger told me they thought the bullet punctured your lung. But the surgeons- she was right about them. They got the bullet out, got you stable, everything. And you’ll… you’ll make a full recovery.”

“If a well-ventilated one.” The joke falls flat.

“And, well…” she hesitates. “You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

He blinks, truly astonished and more than a little bit afraid. “Three… _ days?” _

“Three days,” she confirms. “You… You lost a lot of blood, Chuck. And obviously the- the trauma… and it didn’t help that you’ve got a concussion, which the nurses said might affect your memory. How um… how is your head?”

“Hurts.”

“And do you remember-”

“It’s rather… fragmented,” Charles says with a frown. “Stained glass. But…”

“But?”

“I remember the important things,” he says shyly. “Have you… been here the whole time then?”

“Of course!” she says. “Where the hell else would I be? Especially since I’m the idiot who nearly got you killed in the first place!”

The tears well up again and he runs a hand over her hair. “I would never think that, Donna, you must know that.”

She sniffs. “And _ you_. You’re a real dumbass, you know? Going and getting yourself shot like that.”

“It wasn’t exactly my intention, but-”

“You could have _ died!” _ she points out, suddenly furious. “Don’t you get that? Do you- do you have _ any _ idea what it was like trying to keep you from bleeding out? To keep you alive? Do you have any idea how much you _ fucking scare me?” _

“Well, if it’s half as much as you scare me on a regular basis, then yes, I suppose I have some idea,” he says dryly, making her flush hot with shame. “I apologize.”

“No, no, Charles, _ no, _I’m sorry,” she hiccups. “I got us into this clusterfuck, it’s all my fault.”

“We both fell for Flagg’s ploy, did we not? I believe that makes us equally to blame. Or at least, it’s not your fault.”

“But Chuck, if I had just found another way, the gun wouldn’t have gone off-”

“Donna,” he cuts her off gently. “It isn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.”

“You… You don’t?”

“Donna, the gun went off, yes, but I’d rather it be pointed at me than at your head!” He shakes his head. “You still don’t understand: I’d do it again.”

“No!” He startles at her vehemence. “It’s _ you _ who doesn’t understand! I don’t _ want _ you to do it again! Look, Charles, I know you’re courageous and selfless and a goddamn self-sacrificing _ idiot, _ but you _ can’t _be a goddamn self-sacrificing idiot for me. You can’t.”

“I can’t change who I am, Donna,” he says softly, taking the wind out of her sails. “Nor can I change the fact that saving your life may be the most noble thing I’ve ever done, the most noble thing I could ever hope to do.”

“Can’t you just be a _ coward?” _ she demands. “I got a three-day preview of what it was like to live without you, and I gotta say I didn’t like the coming attractions! I- I _ could, _Chuck, I know I could, but I just don’t fucking want to.”

“And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?” Charles asks, almost smiling. “Neither of us wants to live without the other, and yet we are both so willing to find swords to throw ourselves upon if it guarantees the other’s safety.”

“I… I suppose that’s true.”

He leans in and kisses her forehead. “I suppose in that case we will both just have to live.”

“Best idea I’ve heard all day.” She pauses, wondering if it’s too soon for a joke. “Unless I find a _ really _good sword.”

This startles another laugh out of him, but it turns into a painful huff, Charles clutching his chest. “Oh God, please don’t make me laugh, I can hardly stand it.”

The guilt swallows her whole. “Sorry.”

His laugh softens into a smile as he looks her over again. “And you? Are you alright?”

“I’m better now.”

“I’m serious,” Charles says, frowning as he brushes his thumb over the bandage on her forehead. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” she assures him. “Really, Chuck, it was just a few stitches- though I have to say Max is a lighter hand when it comes to a needle and thread.”

“You’re… you’re sure?”

“Cuts and bruises. This one will make a nice scar,” she says, gesturing to her forehead. “And I’m probably traumatized, but for now, hey, we’re both alive, so me? I’m fucking glorious.”

“Flagg didn’t…” Charles pauses, like he’s trying to remember something, and then he looks at her, clearly worried. “He didn’t harm you did he? After they knocked me out?”

She shifts uneasily. “They talked a good game.”

_ “Donna. _Did they hurt you?”

“They just… roughed me up a little. Nothing I can’t handle. Besides, it was mostly talk. And frankly, I barely noticed. I was more worried about _ you.” _

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says, squeezing his hand. “I’m not.”

“Alright.”

There’s a few moments of peaceful silence, and then Charles clears his throat. “So.”

“So?”

“You lied to me,” he says calmly. When it doesn’t register, he prompts, “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy?”

She groans, her head falling back against the pillow. “I knew, I just _ knew _I’d be hearing about that again. I was just hoping you’d forgotten.”

“How _ could _I forget?” he asks, a trifle smug.

“What do you mean _ how? _You forgot an entire Tuesday,” she jabs half-heartedly. “And the night we met besides.”

He winces. “Yes… about that. Did we really meet at a party?”

“Yep. It was right after Hawkeye recruited me. He invited me to one of your agency parties, because he wanted to make sure I’d click with you guys. And I found a friend, somewhere around the third bowl of punch.”

“Me.”

“Yes,” she says, but after a minute, her smile fades. “Only when we ran into each other at the office, you acted like you had no clue who I was. So I… I figured you hadn’t found me, the same way I found you.”

“I did,” he says. “Even if I was a fool.”

“Well, it… it took a while, but we got here in the end, didn’t we?”

He nods, but yawns. “Good lord, I’m still exhausted.”

“You’re the very sleepy Charlie-pillar,” she teases.

“Eh?”

“It’s a children’s book. People _ did _read to you as a child, didn’t they?”

“... Yes.” He yawns again. 

“Maybe some more rest,” she says softly. 

“Donna,” he says, giving a fondly exasperated look. “As you said, I’ve been_ resting _for three days. The last thing I need is more rest.”

“You need to _ heal,” _Donna says patiently. “Chuck, you’re recovering from a horrific fucking trauma here! And besides, if you don’t heal, you can’t take me to dinner.”

“On second thought,” he says jokingly, closing his eyes.

“I hear being shot really takes it out of you,” Hawkeye says from the doorway. “But uh…. This is a new development. I didn’t know you two were sleeping together.”

“Oh shut _ up, _Hawkeye.”

“Hi Charles,” BJ says, walking in behind Hawkeye. “You look a lot better than the last time I saw you.”

“K’you… I think.”

“How nice of you to return to the land of the living,” Hawkeye says, flopping down in the sole visitor’s chair. “Three days! You could give Jesus a run for his money.”

“What are you two comedians doing here?” Donna asks.

“We heard you got shot,” BJ cuts in, grinning at Charles. “And we were trying to figure out which side did it.”

“Actually, we’re here on business. Though it’s good to see you’re awake, Charles,” Hawkeye says, softer for just a second, and then the mask slips back into place. “I was getting tired of you sleeping on the job. I’ve got a status update, because _ while _you were sleeping, we were out pounding the pavement.”

Charles blinks. “I got _ shot.” _

“Yeah, so did BJ, and he didn’t take three days to recover.”

“He got grazed when Ferret Face misfired at the shooting range!” Donna protests. “That’s hardly the same thing- it didn’t even leave a scar!”

Hawk sticks his nose in the air. “Still.”

BJ sighs. “We haven’t caught Flagg yet.”

“That was my news, you- you- you fink!”

“You were taking too long.”

“He’s _ still _ out there?” Donna asks, dismayed. “What exactly have you two been doing? _ Besides _coming here and harassing me the past three days for news.”

“Look, Donna, we’ve notified all the local hospitals already, including this one, _ and _they all have descriptions of the van, and pictures of Flagg. What more do you want?”

“Hospitals?” Charles asks, confused. “Why-”

“Because Our Lady of Perpetual Stabbiness here,” Hawk says, nodding at Donna, “stuck Flagg full of some pretty icky stuff.”

Charles turns his confused look on Donna. “Donna?”

“I stabbed him,” she admits, embarrassed by the attention. 

“With a hair clip. A little hair of the man that bit her, if you catch my drift.”

“And we’re gonna pretend Max _ didn’t _confiscate it,” BJ says, fixing Donna with a look.

“Anyway, we’re still looking for Flagg, since he’s AWOL- absent, with our loathing.”

“And we’re not the only ones looking for him either.”

“There’s a whole _ can _of alphabet soup involved,” Hawk agrees. 

“Well of course,” Charles says slowly. “It is only natural that many federal agencies would be interested in a traitor.”

“Yes and no.” BJ cracks up. “They’re after Flagg for _ littering_.”

Donna can’t help but crack up too, and after a few seconds all four of them are laughing.

“Imagine,” she says in between helpless giggles, “they’re reading the charges at the trial, or court martial or whatever, and at the end of the list, is a _ fine_. For _ littering_.”

They’re still laughing when Hawk says, “Crime never pays, kids.”

Charles has a hand pressed to his chest, short of breath from laughter and pain, when he manages to ask, “And what of the agency? I doubt the publicity will be kind.”

“What publicity?” BJ asks, wiping at his eyes. “The public doesn’t know anything, and as far as the intelligence community knows-”

“There’s a misnomer if I ever heard one,” Hawkeye interjects.

“As far as the intelligence community knows, there’s a traitor at large, and Homeland gets the credit once they bag him.”

“Then what the fuck happens to _ us?” _ Donna asks. “Did we fuck up that badly?”

“No, no, you fucked up that perfectly,” BJ explains. “Technically you did stop Flagg.”

“But the meeting was a set-up.”

“Yeah well, to quote Potter, a little loco weed must've gotten mixed in with Flagg’s feed. He wasted so much time disposing of you two that he missed his real meeting.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope,” Hawk says cheerfully. “He never made his meeting, probably because you ra-ra-rasputined him, and the buyer got scared… he sang like a canary and cut a great deal with Homeland. Case closed.”

“So that's that? We fucked up in reverse?”

“It was a complete clusterfuck,” BJ assures them. “But it did work in our favour.”

“How so?” Charles asks.

“Well, I’m waiting on the official approval from Mount Sinai, but Sherm says he’ll keep us out of treason cases from now on. Strictly fake canopic jars and counterfeit paintings. And occasionally a phony statue of an Egyptian fertility goddess, if we’re lucky.”

“I mean, unless Potter fires us all,” BJ reasons, “which after this complete shitshow, he’d be well within his rights to do. But I doubt it, he seemed really impressed at your… acting skills.”

“A regular Bacall and Bogart,” Hawkeye says smugly, and Donna is sure she and Charles both flush pink, avoiding each other’s eye. “So he said the two of you get a bonus in your next paycheck, while Beej and I go unrewarded as usual.”

“If an Academy Award nomination isn’t in that bonus, I’d negotiate for one,” Charles suggests with a smile.

“Was that a joke?” Hawkeye asks.

“Was it not funny?”

Donna laughs. “Back to stolen antiquities. I could live with that.” She turns to Charles. “What about you, Indy?”

“It sounds… nice. Consider me in.” His brow furrows. “But…”

“But?”

“Does this mean you’re not leaving us after all? For Lieutenant Colonel Houlihan… and her team?”

“Oh I’m staying right here, Charles, don’t worry.” She leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “Besides, I’m not going anywhere while you still owe me dinner.”

“In that case,” he says with a smile, “I may have to delay it a while longer.”

“Wait a second, wait a second, wait just one _ fucking _second,” Hawkeye says, interrupting. “I was kidding about sleeping together, but… but… you two?”

“Us two what?” Donna asks. “Use your big boy words, Hawkeye.”

“Holy shit,” Hawkeye says, looking between them. “Holy _ shit_, you two actually-”

Charles and Donna share a small, shy smile, and Donna’s about to explain to Hawkeye what’s going on, when it’s shattered by a loud noise down the hall.

“WHERE IS THAT NATURAL DISASTER?”

Donna jumps. “What the fuck?”

“Ah,” Charles says, resigned, turning to Hawkeye and BJ. “Right. Did you call her, Pierce, or was it Hunnicutt?”

Donna’s blood turns suddenly to ice water. _ Her? _

“Don’t look at me, Charles, she never gave me her number. And I’ve been begging for it for _ years."_

“Oh Hawk,” BJ says, shaking his head good-naturedly. “You are barking up so many wrong trees.”

“Who-” Donna starts nervously.

“Brace yourself,” Hawk says, as the commotion outside grows louder. “Because Hurricane Honoria is about to make landfall.”

“Hurricane _ what?"_

“My sister,” Charles says, and any relief is doused by the look of concern on his face. “It _ must _be serious.”

And then the door slams open, and a woman who must be Honoria strides in, and fixes Charles with a glare.

“You,” she says succinctly. “You fucking _ idiot _.”


	20. Wednesday, 10:43 AM

Honoria is not having a good week.

She gets home from Paris on Sunday afternoon, jet lag nipping at her heels like an angry Pomeranian, and once she’s home, she collapses into bed without unpacking.

She gets called into the office at the ass-crack of dawn on Monday morning, roused from a restless sleep by a panicky junior executive certain he’d just lost millions of dollars on the stock market. 

It ends up being a false alarm, but by the time she’s calmed the kid down, it’s mid-morning and any hopes of taking the day off to recover from her trip are shot to hell. 

Tuesday arrives with another disaster in the form of feuding executives who want to turn a routine budget meeting into a performance of the last act of _ Hamlet, _and by the time it’s over, Honoria has decided she’ll never take another vacation, lest the company fall to pieces in her absence. 

She shouts herself hoarse yelling at them, and then gets to spend the rest of the day hearing from a few of her father’s most loyal hangers-on about how frustrating she is to be around when she’s “on the rag”. 

(And it’s damn near impossible resisting stuffing that nonexistent rag down their stuffy old throats.)

And it’s not until she arrives at the office bright and early Wednesday morning (but still late, thanks to an ill-timed call from her mother, who’s still in Paris), that her new personal assistant Walter remembers to tell her the news:

Charles has been shot.

She doesn’t remember dropping the cup of coffee, but the hot drink seeps into her shoes all the same. 

She doesn’t fire the poor kid, just grabs the other cup he’s holding, and tells him to get a chopper to the roof in an hour. 

She hurries back home to toss some clothes in a bag and change her shoes, leaving just enough time to grab a few things for Charles on the way back to the office. 

It’s not until she’s climbing on board the chopper that she realizes she forgot to call their parents.

She’s jittery the whole flight, unable to keep from clenching and unclenching her fist repeatedly, punctuated by checking her watch. 

“Don’t you dare b-be dead, Charlie,” she murmurs to the bright sky outside. “Don’t you _ dare_.”

“Did you say something ma’am?” the pilot asks. 

“No, Jack, it’s fine.”

The message is three days old.

Which means she could be the sole surviving Winchester child. 

And oh _ God, _she needs twenty minutes alone with her punching bag for the world to make sense again. 

She reads the message over again, her eyes skimming the now-memorized words: _ stable condition, GSW, room 331. _

“We’re here!” Jack calls, just before they touch down on the hospital roof, and Honoria finally relaxes.

She still mutters to herself the whole trip down to the third floor, fear having given way to anger by now. 

“Excuse me,” she says, walking over to the nurses’ station. “I’m looking for an idiot.”

The duty nurse looks up in surprise. “What?”

“My b-brother,” Honoria explains. “He’s a p-patient here. That _ idiot _got himself shot, because he had some visions of glory or something, I don’t know.”

“Does your brother have a name?” the nurse asks. Her name tag reads _ Nurse Able_.

Honoria leans on the counter and grins. “His name is Charles Emerson Winchester the Third. I’m his younger and wiser sister, Honoria. And you’re Nurse Able.”

“Uh huh.”

“So are you?” Honoria asks. “Able, that is?”

“We all like to think so,” another nurse, whose nameplate designates her Nurse Bigelow, says, walking up to the station and setting down a clipboard, before turning and eyeing Honoria up and down. “Hillary Clinton cosplay?”

“I run a company, actually,” Honoria says. “Is that m-m-moron _ here _or not?”

“I’m afraid I’m not allowed to say,” Able says, shaking her head. “That’s privileged-”

“I’m his emergency contact,” Honoria explains. “What, you need my ID? I’ve got my p-passport, driver’s license, b-business card… Look, all I want-”

“He’s not allowed visitors.”

“Ah. I see. So- So he _ is _here at least. Thanks Nurse Able, you’re a champ. If you could just p-point me in his direction-”

“Look,” Able says, leaning in. “I want to help you, really, but I can’t.”

“Don’t you have a boss I can talk to or something?”

“That would be me.”

Honoria turns in surprise and looks down, to find a woman staring up at her, thoroughly unimpressed. “Hi there, and you would be…?”

“I’m Nurse Kellye Nakahara, I’m the head nurse for this floor.” She glares at Honoria. “And since your brother is still at risk, all his visitors have to be screened.”

“And let me guess, you’re in charge.”

“I am. You can’t see him.”

“Relax, lady, I’m not here to finish the job,” Honoria says, trying for a disarming grin, but the head nurse is unimpressed. “Though, let me tell you, as someone who’s p-put up with him for so long, it is tempting.”

She doesn’t laugh. “He is recovering from a serious injury-”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here, so if you could j-just-”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea-”

“WHERE IS THAT NATURAL DISASTER?”

There’s a stunned silence.

And then Able, bless her, clears her throat, and points down the hall. “He’s um- room 331. On the left, can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, Nurse Able. I’ll remember you in my two-star review on Y-Yelp” Honoria says, glaring at Nurse Nakahara, though the effect is somewhat diminished by her stutter.

“Ms. Winchester, your cheap theatrics may impress your boardroom, but they don’t do it for me,” Nakahara says, before walking off, leaving Honoria standing there still, her fists clenched at her sides.

“Can you b-believe her?” she asks Able, once she can find the words. She’s not used to being left speechless by _ anyone_, and she can’t decide if she’s angry or awed by the diminutive head nurse.

Able doesn’t say a word.

But Bigelow grins. “Actually, I think she liked you.”

“You get ten minutes!” Nakahara calls.

“Yeah?” Honoria asks, her voice loud enough to carry. “Or what, you’ll th-throw me out if I stay for eleven?”

Nakahara turns around, and raises an eyebrow. “Absolutely.”

“She’s really not kidding,” Able says, “so you’d better listen.”

“And I’m going to be afraid of _ her?"_ Honoria asks.

“Nine minutes!”

Cursing under her breath, she starts walking down the hall. It’s been too long a week for her to be stopped by one determined nurse. In fact, the closer she gets to her brother’s room, the angrier she gets. The whole week has been conspiring against her, and on top of it, she’s almost lost the one sibling she has left.

She finds her brother’s room easily and pushes the door open, ignoring Hawkeye and BJ perched together on a single chair, and focusing all her attention on the bed, where her brother is lying next to a very attractive lady.

At least he’s awake. 

“You,” she says, too angry for eloquence. “You fucking _ idiot_.”

There’s a brief, pregnant, pause. 

“Hello to you too, Norie,” he says, his voice measured, if hoarse.

“Don’t you _ hello _ me, you jackass! I b-busted my butt to get d-down here and all you’ve g-got to say is a _ hello? _ No ‘s-sorry for m-making you worry’, no ‘I p-promise not to be st- st- stupid again’, you just open your big dumb m-m-mouth and- and say _ hello_?”

“Well, I _ would _ apologize, but I’m not entirely sure what I’m apologizing for.” Charles grins at her. “This may come as a shock to you, Norie, but getting shot wasn’t _ my _idea.”

“Can’t you j-just go one week without b-being stupid?” she demands. “One w-week!”

“Oh lay off, Honoria,” Hawkeye starts, and she turns to him. 

“I’ll d-deal with _ you _later.”

“Promise?” Hawk mumbles.

Honoria turns back to her brother, intending to ream him out further, but instead her attention drifts to the woman beside him, the one who’s regarding her as if she’s some sort of exotic bird, eyes wide. “Hi, you must b-be Donna.”

Donna blinks, turning pink when she seems to realize she’s staring. “H-Hi, and you’re Winchester. I mean, you’re Honoria. You’re Charles’s-”

“Younger and b-better-looking sister.” Honoria grins, and this is almost normal.

“I’ve heard so much about you.”

“All terrible,” Honoria says with a shrug. “And p-probably all true.”

“Yes, but um- fuck. Charles never mentioned you were- were-”

“Large and in charge?” Honoria suggests.

“You’re gorgeous,” Donna blurts out. “I mean-”

Charles, watching this exchange, grins. “Quite alright, Donna, she often has this effect on people. You get used to it.”

“You never do,” Hawkeye corrects. “Charles is just immune because she’s his sister.”

“Hey, listen, can you two do me a favor and fuck off? Go distract Nurse Nakahara. Flirt with her or b-be weird or whatever it is you do, just keep her away so she doesn’t toss me out.”

“Oh give us a _ hard _task,” Hawk says, nearly swooning. 

“Said and done,” BJ agrees. 

“Maybe I can give her the old Pierce smolder and get her number…” Hawk says dreamily as BJ steers him out the door.

“You've been here five minutes and you’ve already made an enemy?” Charles asks as the boys leave, amused. “Why am I not surprised?”

“That’s rich coming from you, dingus, seeing as _ you’re _the one who got sh-shot.”

“Actually…” Donna hesitates when Honoria raises an eyebrow. “That was um- sort of my fault… Charles was only… protecting me.”

“Oh.” Honoria looks between them. “Like that, is it?”

“Oh shut up,” Charles says. “You’d have done the same in my position, and you know it. You’re just sorry you didn’t think of it first!”

“You assume a lot, dimwit.”

“Priss.”

“Fool.”

“Ignoramus.”

“At least I was smart enough not to get _ shot_.”

“Am I to be spared _ nothing?"_ Charles groans, looking at the ceiling. “A nice treasonous _ maniac _tried to shoot Donna. Being the gentleman that I am, and rather attached to her besides, I took exception to the idea.”

“And you got shot for your t-troubles.”

“Perhaps I should go-” Donna starts.

“Stay,” Charles says, though his eyes are fixed on Honoria. “Are you perhaps disappointed that I did the right thing?”

“It just seems so unlike you.”

He sticks his nose in the air. “That’s what you think.”

“We’re not interrupting, are we?” comes a voice from the doorway. 

“Yeah, we’re here for the forty-seven De Soto, it’s time for a tune-up,” another voice says.

“Forgive me,” Honoria says, turning to assess their new visitors. “But who the h-hell are _ you?” _

“We’re the men who put Humpty Dumpty here back together again,” the first doctor replies. 

“I’m Dr. Newsome,” the other says. “You can call me Steve. And this is Dr. McIntyre, he did most of the heavy lifting.”

“A pleasure,” Charles says, struggling to sit up and wincing all the while. 

“Hey, buddy, relax, we took enough hardware outta you to build a jeep,” McIntyre says, grinning. 

“And we’re just here to have a chat about the surgery, now that you’re awake for it,” Newsome says. “I hate when people sleep through my lectures.”

“Your chart here says you’re from Boston,” Dr. McIntyre says with a grin. “If I’d ’a known I was working on a fellow Beantown native, I woulda rolled out the red carpet. Mighta even washed both hands before operating.”

Charles smiles, though it’s more of a pained grimace. 

“I guess I’m in a minority here,” Dr. Newsome says with an apologetic smile. “Since I was born and raised in Chicago.”

“Yeah? And where’d you get your medical training, Al Capone State?” Charles asks.

“I did my undergrad there, actually, but I went to Johns Hopkins.”

“Ah.”

“Though the best surgical training I ever had was at this ribs place downtown-”

Honoria clears her throat. “What exactly is this idiot’s p-prognosis?”

“Well, well, well, lookee what we have here. This the new schoolmarm?” Dr. McIntyre asks, eyeing Honoria up and down, his drawl becoming more pronounced.

“Actually, I’m Honoria Winchester, I’m this m-moron’s sister.”

“Honoria? That’s catchy,” Newsome says. “My name’s Just Plain Steve.”

“Well, Just P-Plain, maybe _ you _can tell me. Unless you’re a comedian too?”

“I’m sorry,” Newsome says, “But before we reveal any information to anyone else, we need to consult with Charles here in private.”

“Is it that serious?” Donna asks, paling.

“No, no, nothing like that, we just… rules y’know.”

“Otherwise they send lawyers after us,” McIntyre adds. 

“Well…”

“C’mon,” Donna says, hoisting herself off the bed and nearly falling flat on her face. “The cafeteria makes a lousy cup of coffee. My treat.”

Honoria blinks at how eager Donna is, but by the looks of her, she hasn’t left Charles’s side in a while. And all protests stop at her lips when Donna leans in and kisses Charles goodbye without a hint of self-consciousness. “Bye Chuck.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Honoria tells her, before mouthing _ Chuck? _at Charles behind her back. Charles, to his credit, just grins. “Can you two boys j-just give us a minute?”

“Sure thing, honey,” McIntyre says, and the door clicks shut, leaving her alone with her brother.

There’s silence for a second, and then she says, “Charlie, are… are you okay?”

To his credit, he doesn’t ask where she’s been the past few days, and she’s too ashamed to bring it up herself. 

“Better, now that I’ve dragged you away from your work.” He grins as she thumps his shoulder. “You need a vacation, anyway.”

“I just had a v-vacation!” She flicks him. “Or did you forget?”

He grimaces, raising his hand to smack himself in the forehead, before thinking better of it. “Paris! God, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be.” She takes his hand. “Charlie.”

“Norie.”

“Y-You scared the hell out of me.” Her voice is rough. “I don’t want to lose another brother, Charlie.”

“And you won’t,” he assures her. “I’m sorry to have scared you.”

“I’m sorry you got shot.”

He smiles at last. “Well, aren’t we a sorry pair.”

She nudges him again, more lightly. “I'm glad you're not dead, idiot.”

“As am I.”

She grins. “So…”

“So?”

“Y-You and Donna, huh?”

“I take it back,” he says, addressing the ceiling. “Being dead would be best I think.”

“C’mon, Charlie. You’ve been in love with her for what- a year? A year and a half?”

“Shh!” he says frantically. “Not. So. Loud!”

“And next thing I know, I walk in here after you get shot for her, only to find her c-curled up in _ your _bed, and smooching you senseless.”

“Well you make it sound as if-”

“Like _ damn_, Charlie, what happened?”

“It would take entirely too long to explain, but I’ll gladly sum it up for you. Donna and I were undercover together in an attempt to bring down a traitor, and we sort of… realized.”

“You realized what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past year? That your feelings are m-mutual?” Honoria asks, unimpressed. “One word, Charlie: _ duh _.”

“But Norie, it’s more than that. She… she _ knows_.”

“She- oh. Oh! And… it wasn’t a deal b-breaker? Because if it was, I’ll show her a deal br-breaker or two-”

“No, no, this time, it wasn’t. She actually… knew. Somewhat.”

Honoria smiles, a little relieved at the thought. “Then she was worth it.”

“Without question.”

“Okay, so that means you’re dating, r-right? Or whatever it is you crazy kids call it nowadays.”

“Oh.” He turns pink. “Well… we haven’t exactly _ discussed _the matter, but… I think so?”

“Oh Charlie,” she says, shaking her head. “You are way beyond the p-p-point of no return. You are the _ mother _of all lost c-causes.”

“Maybe. But I _ intend _to talk to her.”

“And you can, after I give her a nice sisterly sh-shovel talk.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Yeah?” Honoria asks, standing up. “Well it looks like you’re trapped in bed while I can come and go as I please, so I don’t know how you p-propose to stop me.”

“Norie, _ please_.”

“Relax, I’ll behave.” Honoria leans down and kisses him on the forehead. “Well, m-mostly.”

“And remember,” he warns as she leaves. “It’s considered bad form to steal your sibling’s partner while said sibling is on their deathbed.”

“I’ll keep that in mind!”

She keeps a wary eye out for Nurse Nakahara as she makes her way to the elevator – it’s fairly obvious she stayed longer than her allotted ten minutes – but once she’s inside, she can’t stop the grin from spreading across her face. 

Charlie is stubborn, annoying and self-righteous, it’s true.

But most important- he’s _ alive_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas (and a happy Boxing Day from Honoria)


	21. Wednesday, 10:57 AM

Donna can’t help anxiously fiddling with the gold rim of the coffee cup, going through the motions of stirring in cream and sugar almost absentmindedly while waiting for Honoria.

She doesn’t know what she was expecting.

She’s heard the legends after all: Honoria is the one who beat Hawkeye and BJ at office party beer pong (though what beer pong was doing at an office party, Donna still isn’t sure), and the winner of over a dozen boxing championships when she’s not busy running the family company _ and _somehow still finding time to date every eligible woman on the east coast.

She’s _ also _a total fucking knockout.

Aside from the piercing blue eyes that make her look uncannily like her older brother, she’s also got a halo of messy blonde hair, and cheekbones that could cut diamonds, and at well over six feet tall _ plus _the added height of her heels, she could stun anyone simply by walking into the room. 

All in all, Donna is more than a little flustered, sitting and drinking her coffee while she waits for Honoria to show up. She has an inkling of what this little chat will be about, but somehow that isn’t what unnerves her. 

Honoria walks in just as Donna takes a sip of coffee, and – to Donna anyway – it’s like a scene from one of the old Westerns that Potter favors, because when Honoria walks into the cafeteria, men and women alike turn to stare, seemingly dazzled by her presence. 

But it’s _ Donna’s _eye that Honoria meets.

Donna fumbles with her coffee cup, nearly spilling hot coffee in her lap, and swearing breathlessly when it slops over the rim and burns her thumb. 

By the time she’s regained her composure, Honoria is striding towards her, and Donna forgets how to breathe for just a second at the slight smile across Honoria’s lips when their eyes meet.

Honoria collapses into the chair, surprisingly graceful for someone so tall, exhaling dramatically as she does. 

She takes the proffered cup of coffee, dumping in three packets of sugar in silence, her short nails tapping on the wooden table as she fixes Donna with a knowing blue-eyed gaze that is unnerving in how it reminds Donna of Chuck. 

The silence stretches on, the only sound the deafening tap of Honoria’s nails on the table, and Donna feels like a new strain of bacteria under glass, something to be observed and studied.

(And she recognizes the look of a Winchester deep in thought, which unnerves her further.)

Donna tries for a smile, but Honoria remains a blank slate, a mirror reflecting only Donna’s emotions without end.

So Donna raises an eyebrow of her own, crossing her arms as she stares back, meeting Honoria’s eye in challenge (though she’s really a quivering jelly on the inside).

_ You want this_, she thinks, staring. _ Come and get it. _

Honoria takes a sip of coffee, her expression never changing, and it can’t have been more than a few minutes, but it feels like hours later when Donna finally breaks.

“It was all my fucking fault.”

When she’s met with continued silence, she keeps talking. “We were undercover, and that bastard got the drop on us, and Chuck – your brother, that is – was only trying to keep Flagg from shooting me.”

Honoria is still staring, eyes narrowed, but she still looks like a scientist, cool and clinical where Donna is passionate and reckless. If she runs her company the way she’s running this conversation, her legendary status is well-deserved.

“Chuck had him distracted,” she continues, “and was trying to talk him down and I was so _ stupid, _ just jumping at him and- and the gun went off. And if I hadn’t just… if I’d just let him talk Flagg down, maybe- maybe he wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Honoria raises an eyebrow, seemingly skeptical. 

“I would have rather it been me, honest to fuck.”

Honoria gives her a level look, and Donna boils over.

“Aren’t you going to _ say _ something, damn it?” she demands, and she’s rewarded with a smile so brilliant that it’s enough to distract her from any ill will she feels towards the interrogation. “I know I fucked up, and I’ll never tell him, but he’s _ right_, I always rush into things and I don’t look before I jump feet first, and I- I put the one person I love most in danger! Do you know how that _ feels?” _

Honoria raises an eyebrow, seemingly amused by this declaration and it only fuels the fire.

“Yes. I- I _ love _him. It took us a while, God knows, but I love him, and I care about him, and if you don’t approve-”

The smile turns abruptly into a laugh, and it leaves Donna grappling for words again, because while Honoria is brilliant when she smiles, when she laughs it’s _ breathtaking_.

When Honoria laughs, it’s like a brand new song on the radio, so unlike the familiar and beloved melody of Charles’s laugh.

“I can see why Charlie l-likes you,” Honoria says, once she’s recovered. “I cannot b-believe it took you so long to crack.”

And Donna blushes, so easily played. “What. Um. What’s the record?”

“Twenty seconds,” Honoria says proudly. “B-Baby executive, first day on the job. Tried to explain the job I’d been doing for s-six years to me in layman’s terms. Needless to say, I made d-damn sure he knew the score.”

“Wow.”

Honoria shrugs. “I run a tight sh-ship.”

“I’ll bet,” Donna replies when she can find the words. She takes a sip of her coffee, her face hot as she realizes what she’s said, and who she’s said it to.

“So from the sounds of it, you and my brother are p-pretty serious, especially if the L word is being b-bandied about so… casually.” Honoria says, eyebrows raised. 

“We uh- like each other. Like, really… _ really _ like each other.”

“That wasn’t the L word I was referring to,” Honoria say dryly. “And it isn’t ‘lesbian’ either, though god knows I’ve met lesbians with more common sense than you two. Including myself.”

“I love him,” Donna says slowly. “And I know he loves me, but… but we haven’t toke- I mean we haven’t spalked- I-”

Honoria grins, leaning back in her chair. “D-Do you want to hear what I think?”

“_Yes_,” Donna says, much too quickly.

“I think that I’ve been h-hearing your name on my b-brother’s lips a hell of a lot in the past year and a half. I think that you probably feel the same way. And I think it’s pretty d-damn serious even if you’re not getting the label-maker ready just yet. But…”

“But?”

“But I’ve also only got one b-brother, and I’ve seen what happens when his p-partners think they know him. And what h-happens when they’re wrong.”

Donna nods, chest tight. 

Honoria meets her eye at last, and there’s a fierceness to her that Donna has never seen in Chuck. “But let me get one thing st-st-straight: if you fuck with my brother, I’ll p-personally ensure that that bullet ends up where it was initially s-supposed to go.”

Donna blinks at the intensity in Honoria’s voice, and eventually stammers out a, “Y-Yeah if you want to, I’d be okay with that.”

Honoria blinks at her, and for a second Donna has the upper hand.

And then Honoria starts laughing all over again, a hand clapped over her mouth in vain to stifle the giggles that escape, her shoulders shaking with mirth as she does.

Donna sits, and waits, watching.

Finally, Honoria straightens again, wiping her eyes. “L-Look, if you want to vye for the p-position of most important woman in my brother’s life... well, sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not in the b-business of being a sitcom villain.”

_ Sweetheart? _

Donna squeaks out an “Oh.”

Honoria raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. 

“I mean,” Donna says, fixing her posture. “I don’t particularly want to fight.”

“As if I c-couldn’t take you.”

“Um- I- that would-”

“Though I hear you’re a g-good hand with a sword,” Honoria says, grinning. “I’d like to see that.”

“Oh,” Donna says again, helplessly.

“As for the archnemesis thing, I was never really m-much of a Moriarty, anyway,” Honoria says with a graceful shrug. “M-More of a Watson, really.”

“And here I’d have taken you for a Holmes,” Donna mutters, her cheeks colouring. “A leading lady sort, I mean.” 

“Oh?” Honoria grins. “Well, c-clearly you never met Charlie.”

“Beg pardon?”

The grin grows wider, and she goes from beautiful to mad scientist in seconds. “Oh b-bless your s-sweet innocent soul, you don’t know.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Well... let’s just say that the hounds of the B-Baskervilles had nothing on two snotty brats from Beacon Hill who f-fancied themselves Sherlock and Watson.”

“You and Chuck?”

“Elementary, my dear P-Parker.” Honoria laughs, shaking her head. “God, we were a n-nightmare! Even our servants thought so, called us the ‘terror siblings’… and not without good reason.”

“Why? You were just kids fucking around.”

“Well, let me think… we broke at least two p-priceless vases, spilled wine all over a Persian rug in the library, set f-fire to the garage… and I almost d-drowned Charlie at the Cape one summer. Until our father put an end to it, of course.”

“Why? You were kids, you weren’t hurting anyone.”

“Except ourselves,” Honoria says wryly. “Since the last st-straw was Charlie breaking his arm – and my leg in the process – when we reenacted the Reichenbach F-Falls scene by jumping off the roof of the old carriage sh-shed.”

Donna’s mouth drops open, as she pictures it. “You-”

“I guess our father figured he’d rather have two unhappy and contrary children than two… two dead ones,” Honoria says with a shrug. “I sure got Charlie good though, especially when I wrote ‘fuck you’ on his cast.”

“You _ what?” _

“I was a precocious nine year old,” Honoria says, and grins. “But I think we all knew who I really was directing that at.”

Donna knows too. 

“I think Charlie’s st-still got the pipe though. One of our chauffeurs – Jimmy, I th-think his name was – carved it for him,” Honoria says fondly. “But it was childish and d-dangerous, and it… it didn’t look good, me being Chuck’s b-best friend. So that meant we had to st-stop.”

“Hardly seems fair.”

“If you think f-fair ever played a part, clearly you haven’t met Prince Charles the Second,” Honoria replies, rolling her eyes. And then the grin returns. “But in the end, image meant _ fuck _all. Since I got the c-company.”

“You did. That’s not nothing.”

“It’s almost enough to make up the gaping hole of knowing I’ll never be the favorite.” Honoria gazes thoughtfully at Donna. “Charlie has that on lock, no matter what dumbass thing he does for attention.”

Donna feels quite suddenly like she’s dropped into a private family secret. “Oh, um-”

“I’m kidding,” Honoria assures her. “Really. It’s unf-fortunate for our father that he doesn’t much like either of us.”

“What?”

Honoria points to herself. “Lesbian.”

“And Charles… is an archaeologist,” Donna says, realization dawning.

“Yes,” Honoria says plainly. “An archaeologist, and queer as a three dollar b-bill. Bonus p-points if you figure out which one’s worse to P-Prince Charles.” 

“He did… tell me about that,” Donna admits. “How your father didn’t approve.”

“Yes, but he never actually d-disowned either of us. Though Charlie has probably deserved it a f-few times. Like the night he graduated from Harvard…”

“You mean when he jumped in the Charles River in cap and gown?” Donna asks, unable to help herself.

Honoria blinks, a deeper emotion flickering across her face, gone before Donna can figure out what it is. “… He t-told you about that?”

“Yeah. Why, is it a secret?”

“No…” Honoria draws the word out, clearly re-evaluating her position on Donna as she does. “I’m just… s-surprised, since he doesn’t like t-talking about it. Undignified, you know.”

Donna feels a sudden lump in her throat. “It’s endearing.”

Honoria nods, and is about to say something further when her phone rings on the table between them, and Donna doesn’t get a chance to see who’s calling before Honoria snatches it up. “They let you have a ph-phone?” she demands as soon as she picks up. “How?”

Donna goes back to picking the gold off the rim of the coffee cup, trying not to stare at Honoria, who’s rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, k-keep your wig on, Charlie, I’ll be upst-stairs in a minute. Yes, she’s with me.” Honoria waggles her eyebrows at Donna. “Is the head nurse st-still around? Because I’ve got p-plenty of embarrassing stories to keep Donna here entertained until you chase her off.”

Donna grins, able to hear Charles’s protests even over the phone. 

“Yeah?” Honoria asks, amused. “Oh r-really? I guess in that case, we’ll come straight- yeah I know, we’ll be right up.”

She hangs up the phone, grinning. “Somehow Charlie’s sweet-t-talked Hawkeye into giving him back his phone. And he w-wants us back upstairs.”

“I take it he managed to lure Nurse Kellye away?” Donna asks innocently.

“Oh, don’t even t-try it,” Honoria says. “That woman will be the d-death of me.”

“Will she?” 

“I’ve already tangled with her t-twice, and it’s not even noon. P-People will talk.”

“Well, you know what they say… takes two to tangle.”

Honoria laughs. “That’s cute. But a third time would truly be m-masochistic of me, and I have a r-reputation to maintain.”

“Oh yes,” Donna says. “I know all about your… um. Reputation.”

Honoria’s laugh fades to a smirk. “Yeah?”

“Lesbian,” Donna says, ticking the points off on her fingers. “CEO. Beer pong champion. Knockout.”

Honoria laughs. “Th-Thanks. And wh-what do you know about Charlie’s reputation?”

“And what reputation… would that be?” She’s suddenly nervous. “I mean I know _ he’s _not a lesbian.” 

This makes Honoria laugh, as she slides her phone across the table. “I’ll let the p-picture speak for itself. And unlike that swan dive into the river, he’s actually p-proud of this one.”

Donna blinks, and it takes a second for her to comprehend what she’s looking at. “Oh my god.”

“Donna, meet B-Brunnhilde,” Honoria says proudly.

Donna can’t stand it any longer. She cracks up, the image of Charles as a busty blonde Viking – right down to the horned helmet and braids – burned on the inside of her eyelids. “Oh Jesus, that’s…”

“P-Priceless, right?” Honoria asks. “And you want to know the b-best part?”

“There’s a better part than _ Brunnhilde?"_ Donna wipes at her eyes, her sides aching. 

“That’s his contact photo. Which he p-picked out himself.”

And then Honoria is laughing, too.

“Can I have a copy?” Donna asks around a fit of helpless giggles.

“Sure, just not for blackmail. I tried it, but he’s still too p-p-pleased with himself.”

“Oh no, not blackmail,” Donna says. “I just think it’ll make a damn fine photo on someone’s piano someday.”

“You’ve got a specific p-piano in mind?” Honoria asks speculatively.

Donna clears her throat, changing the subject as she stands up. “Um. I think we ought to go rescue Chuck from Hawk and BJ’s well-meaning clutches, don’t you?”

Honoria nods, but as they walk towards the elevator, she keeps shooting speculative looks in Donna’s direction. 

“So, um,” Donna says, suddenly eager to fill the silence. “What’s the story behind Brunnhilde? I’m assuming he doesn’t just dress up as a Viking for kicks?”

Honoria laughs, distracted. “_That _, s-sweet Donna, was his very first show with the Hasty P-Pudding Club.”

“Playing a Viking named Brunnhilde?”

“Hey, I don’t write this st-stuff,” Honoria says with a shrug. “He did.”

“He _ did?"_

“Yeah. Not exactly what you’d expect from a stuffy old f-fart like him, huh?”

Donna doesn’t say a word, just smiles to herself like an idiot, because it _ is _ what she’s come to expect from Charles, from _ her _Charles especially, the one who tells her the embarrassments of his past with a desire for the future written all over his face, and the way he looks at her is clear: he wants her, past, present and future. How could she not want him too?

“He was so p-proud too,” Honoria says. 

“I’d have liked to have seen that,” Donna murmurs, but the words are lost as the elevator door opens. 

“Shit,” Honoria hisses, trying to duck behind Donna once they’ve stepped out. “Nurse on the war-p-p-path!”

Donna spins around, wondering how ridiculous it must look, Honoria trying to cram her six-three frame behind the considerably shorter Donna. “What?”

“Nurse Nakahara, t-twelve o’clock!”

“Are you nuts?”

“Keep moving!”

“What, am I supposed to hide you under my skirt?” Donna asks, flippantly. “I think she’s coming this way. You can hide inside that garbage can instead if you’d like.”

“That’s n-not funny!”

“Miss Parker,” Kellye says, with a smile, but it fades. “And is that Miss Winchester I see playing hide and seek in your skirts?”

Donna’s cheeks flame. “It might be.”

“Well someone should tell her she really looks ridiculous.”

“Hey, listen, lady,” Honoria says, straightening up, eyes blazing. “I don’t know wh-what your issue is b-but-”

“I’m not here for you,” Kellye says. “Strange as that concept must seem.”

Donna looks between them, wondering if it’s safe to step into this pissing contest. She clears her throat. “Nurse Kellye, was there something you needed?”

“Yes,” Kellye says, eyeing Honoria warily. “I did, but…”

“Honoria, why don’t you go check on Chuck, make sure that the boys haven’t smothered him yet?”

“Fine,” Honoria says. “If th-that’s okay with the warden?”

“Ten minutes,” Kellye says. “Take it or leave it.”

“Twenty. And not a s-second less.”

“This isn’t your boardroom, and I’m not so easily bent.”

“Yeah? Well I _ am _easily b-bent, just not around nurses on power t-trips, because that tends to get me bent out of sh-shape-”

“Fifteen minutes should do it,” Donna says, stepping in. “That’s a good compromise, right? Everyone’s at least halfway happy.”

“Fine,” Kellye says. 

“Great.” With one last glare at Kellye, Honoria stalks off.

“Sorry about… that,” Donna says, feeling the need to apologize. “She’s just-”

“You don’t need to make excuses,” Kellye says. “It’s not what I’m here to talk to you about.”

“Is everything okay?” Donna asks. “Is Chuck alright?”

“Physically, he’s on the mend,” Kellye confirms. “He’s doing fine, all things considered. Though of course, he does have a long road ahead.”

“You said physically,” Donna says, picking up on the distinction. “And mentally?”

“A little disoriented, a little forgetful, which isn’t surprising considering the last few days, and considering that nice bump on the head. And it’ll take some time, of course, before he’s okay, and he may still have trouble remembering things. But if you ask me… I think having you around will be good for him.”

Donna turns pink. “Well, I’m… I’m not a doctor.”

“Sometimes you don’t have to be.”

“Thank you.”

Kellye smiles. “I’m telling you this because my nurses have told me they think I should enforce visiting hours on you and your… colleagues. But my opinion on the matter is ‘not my circus, not my monkeys’.”

Donna laughs. “I’m glad to hear that. Minus the part where that makes them _ my _monkeys.”

“And I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

“Thanks, Kellye.”

“Though at the same time, you may want to limit his exposure to the Hawaiian peanut gallery.”

“What, Pierce and Hunnicutt? They’re harmless. Relatively. And you never know, they may annoy him back to health. Captive audience and all.”

“Right,” Kellye says, laughing. “They went home, but I’ll remember that next time they show up. As for you, you're free to go in and see him, and I’ll be there in a few minutes to check in.”

She starts to walk away, until Donna asks, “Kellye?”

“Yes?”

“Could you do me one last favor?”

“Anything.”

“Lay off Honoria, will you? It’s not any easier for her.”

Kellye’s face is unreadable. “I’ll do what’s best for my patient, Donna.”

And then she’s gone.

Donna takes a deep breath, and walks into Charles’s room.

Charles is distracted by Honoria, who’s sitting in a chair beside his bed and talking a mile a minute as she pulls things from her bag. “And I d-didn’t know how much of Captain Marvel you’ve read so I sort of bought… a-all of them.”

“Really, Norie, this is overkill,” Charles scolds, and then he notices her, his face glowing as he struggles to sit up. “Donna!”

She sits on the end of the bed. “Hiya Chuck. Mail call?”

“Better b-believe it!” Honoria says from the depths of her bag. “I just spend a damn f-fortune on these, Charlie, and I’ll be disappointed in you if you don’t read them.”

“Can’t have that, I suppose,” Charles jokes. “You’re the one person in this family I’ve yet to disappoint.”

“Captain Marvel?” Donna asks, picking up one of the comics and flipping through them. “I always saw you as a Doctor Strange type myself.”

He grins. “Really?”

“Sure. You’re even starting to get the beard for it,” she teases. “But I could learn to like Captain Marvel for you.”

They share a smile.

“Ahem,” Honoria says, clearing her throat impatiently. “If you two are done being weird, I also have c-contraband. If you’re hungry.”

“What kind of contraband? Have you got a cheeseburger? Or a milkshake and fries?”

“Sure, just let me tell the f-fry cook I keep in my back p-pocket to fire up the grill,” Honoria says, mystified. “Why would I have a cheeseburger in my p-purse?”

“I think he’s earned one.”

“All I have is the finest junk f-food money can buy. Convenience store gourmet, if you will.”

“I think I’d prefer the cheeseburger.”

“That s-sucks for you then, Charlie, because all I’ve got is Pringles, Rolos, pretzels…”

“Pretzels!” Donna says, reaching for the bag.

“Ah!” Honoria pulls them back. “Did _ you _get sh-shot?”

“No.”

“Oh give her the pretzels, Norie,” Charles says, grabbing them from her and passing them to Donna.

“Oh! And I’ve got pralines.”

He eyes her suspiciously. “Pralines?”

“What’s wrong with pralines?” Donna asks, confused. 

“Only that the last time my _ dear _sister sent me a can of pralines, it was a prank can,” Charles mutters. “An April Fools conspiracy with Pierce and Hunnicutt. A truly lame jest, but cruel in that when it had ended… I had no pralines.”

“Aw Charlie, don’t you t-trust me? It’s a real can, and besides that was f-five years ago!”

“A Winchester never forgets!”

“It’s a real can, and real pralines, you p-paranoid idiot.”

“You better not be joking, Norie, a shock could send me back into a coma.”

Honoria, halfway through pulling the Rolos from her bag, freezes. “… _ b-back?"_

There’s a frozen moment, the room cast in amber.

Charles and Honoria stare at each other in silence.

“You didn’t know?” Charles asks at last, almost gently.

“N-No.” It’s the only crack Donna’s seen in Honoria’s exterior since she showed up. “Nobody t-t-told me.”

The silence drags on, and then the door opens, and Kellye steps in. 

She sees the ridiculous tableau in front of her. “Is this a bad time?”

“My brother,” Honoria says, looking up, “just t-told me he was in a c-coma.”

Donna looks between her and Kellye, between astonished fear and a look of surprise.

Kellye frowns in response. “He’s been unconscious since they operated on him, on Sunday. He only woke up this morning… nobody told you?”

“Th-The message…” Honoria says, her voice tight with unshed tears, and Donna sees her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. “The message they relayed w-was only that he’d… that he’d b-been _ shot_, and he was stable. N-Nobody said…”

“Nobody said he was in a coma,” Donna finishes for her.

“You honestly didn’t know?” Kellye asks critically. “You weren’t just… staying away?”

“God, n-no! I would’ve been here _ S-Sunday _if I’d known, in an instant!”

“But the company-“ Charles starts.

“Oh f-fuck the company!” she snaps at him. “Don’t you think you m-matter more to m-me than them?”

“Well-“

“If it’s between that st-stupid company and my only b-brother? It’s no fucking c-contest, you idiot!”

Seeing that Honoria and Charles are on the verge of a brawl, Kellye clears her throat. “Miss Winchester, forgive me, I… I think I owe you an apology.”

Honoria blinks. “For what?”

“I thought… well it doesn’t matter. I was wrong, and I misjudged you, and I’m sorry. And I’m glad you’re here for your brother.”

Honoria waves her away. “I’m sorry too. T-Truce?”

“Truce.” Kellye turns to Charles. “Now, Charles, are you hungry?”

“Starved,” he says, sincerely. “Can I have a cheeseburger?”

Kellye grins. “Are you sure you can handle a cheeseburger?”

Charles sits up straighter. “Madame, in the past week I have been beaten, drugged, pistol-whipped and _ shot_. What could a cheeseburger possibly do that could be worse than that, eh?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

After she’s gone, Charles reaches over and takes Honoria’s hand. “Norie? I’m not angry with you. Really.”

“And why not? You h-have every right to be. I should’ve b-been here-"

“Please, Norie, you’d just have sat around and watched me drool like a bored schoolboy. Very boring. Donna can attest to _ that _-”

“But she was _ h-here_.”

Donna is an intruder on this moment, and keeps quiet.

“She was. She kept watch. It’s _ alright_, Norie.” He squeezes her hand. “I wasn’t alone.”

“But-”

“Besides, you have a company to run,” he says lightly. “It would’ve been foolish to abandon it for me.”

“It would’ve been worth it,” she says, leaning in and wrapping her arms around him. “D-Dummy.”

“Ignoramus.”

“Simpleton.”

“Fool.”

Honoria pulls away, and takes Charles’s hand in hers again. She offers the other to Donna. “You were here the whole time?”

Donna nods, taking Honoria’s hand. “Every second.”

This rewards her with a grin, and Honoria turns back to Charles. “Charlie, sh-she’s bitchin’. I couldn’t p-persuade you to share her, could I?”

“No,” Charles says. “Get your own.”

There’s a moment of shared laughter, and then Honoria gasps. “Oh! I forgot! One m-more gift for the man who h-has everything!”

“Oh God,” Charles groans, “am I to be spared nothing?”

Honoria leans down and pulls a Viking helmet from her bag, setting it on Charles’s head. “You’ll be up and riding again soon, Valkyrie!”

The helmet slides down over his eyes as he grins. “How amusing.”

“It’s a good look on you, Brunnhilde,” Donna tells him.

He shoves the helmet up to look at her, eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter. “You’ve seen the picture then?”

“Yeah, Viking looks good on you, Chuck. I bet you’d look great in a leather skirt.”

“Oh, hardly.”

“I mean it, Chuck, you’ve got legs for days. And really cute kneecaps.”

He turns pink. “Thank you. And to Norie for the helmet.”

“Maybe you can give us an encore, B-Brunnhilde?” Honoria asks, leaning back in her chair. “If I can dig out the leather sk-skirt that is.” 

“I think not,” he says, dignified, before holding up the can of pralines he’s somehow liberated from Honoria’s bag. “Praline?”

“How…? Whatever. Th-Thanks, Charlie, I’d love one. D-Donna?”

“Pass.”

Honoria takes the can and tries to twist it open. “Oh it’s a stubborn SOB.”

“What kind of sapphic are you, can’t even open a jar?” Charles teases.

“I've… almost.. g-got it,” she mutters through gritted teeth and then the lid springs open, launching a fake snake into her face and she shrieks in surprise. “Son of a _ b-bitch!"_

Charles starts laughing, as does Donna, and after a few seconds of angry muttering, Honoria cracks up too.


	22. Wednesday, 3:10 PM

"... So a-anyway, Clayton looks me in the eye and j-just says 'but you  _ told _ me to authorize this," Honoria says, laughing. 

"To your face?" Donna asks, surprised.

Honoria nods, still laughing.

"How naive," Charles says, not looking up from his crossword, "thinking that good people still exist in the corporate world."

"Oh shut up," Honoria says, still flushed with laughter. "Glass h-houses, Charles Emerson."

"Didn't you know?" he asks, finally looking up, eyebrows raised. "I gave  _ you _ the company so I wouldn't have to sell my soul."

"And you think I s-sold mine?"

"You said it, not me," he says politely. "But you'll notice my hands are clean."

"Says the one whose entire career is b-based on getting dirty," Honoria says, shaking her head.

"So what happened with Clayton?" Donna asks, curious, looking between them. "Did you fire him?"

"I a-actually sorta admired him," she says wistfully.

"You kept the lying weasel on staff?" Charles asks, shocked. "Norie!" 

"Hey, it took some b-big brass ones to lie bald-f-faced to the boss. Besides, I need workers with good p-poker faces."

"Amazing," Donna says with a laugh.

"I drew the line at p-promoting him though, I-" Honoria's cell phone rings, and she tugs it out of her pocket, making a face at the screen. "Excuse me, I have to t-take this."

"Wonder what that's about," Donna says, watching her leave.

"Company business, no doubt," Charles replies, though he looks uneasy. "You wouldn't happen to have a thirteen-letter word for 'impossible', would you?"

"Inconceivable?"

"Ah." He pencils it in. "I hope my sister wasn't too rough with you."

She blinks.  _ “What?” _

"Oh, she... er. I only meant." He turns pink. "Never mind."

"I don't really think it's me I should be worrying about," she teases, gently. "I'm fighting fit."

"Well, who should you be worried about?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Gee, let me think."

"What, this?" he asks, gesturing to the bandages. "'Tis but a scratch, my dear."

She laughs, surprised, as he grins. "Are you sure you're doing okay?"

"Fine, really. Besides," he says, raising his eyebrows. "I do my best work on my back."

She's spluttering out an answer even as she laughs, and Charles is laughing too when Honoria walks back in, looking... different. 

"Charlie?"

"Oh  _ God, _ that hurts," Charles says, clutching his chest as he laughs. "What is it, Norie?"

"Ph-Phone for you."

"You can't take a message?"

"It's Prince Charles."

Donna and Charles both stop laughing, sharing an apprehensive look, but then he tries for a smile. "In a can?"

"That's P-Prince Albert, dipshit. Look, h-he wants to talk to you."

"Why?"

"How sh-should I know?"

"I should... probably go then," Donna says, standing up from the bed. 

"What, why?"

"I try to avoid fucked-up family shit, when it's not my business-"

"No!" Charles protests, grabbing her wrist. "It  _ is _ your business! You're part of the family, you're my girlfriend for heaven's sake."

Donna blinks, and then she can't hold back the smile, as what he says sinks in. "... Girlfriend?"

"Oh  _ God, _ you two are f-fucking useless," Honoria says, shoving the phone at her brother. "S-Save the important shit for later. Here!"

Charles grimaces as he takes the phone, holding it up to his ear like it’s a live grenade.

Donna sits back down on the edge of the bed, and laces her fingers through his, trying to ground him.

“Hello?” Charles asks, struggling to sit up, as if he doesn’t want his father to hear him slouch. “Yes… hello Father.”

It’s painful to watch, Donna thinks, and she squeezes his hand absentmindedly.

“What? Oh, yes… I’m… I’m recovering well. Thank you.”

Donna exchanges a helpless look with Honoria, who shakes her head.

“Yes… what? Oh. Er…” Charles glances sideways at Donna, and cringes. “Yes, I… I did say ‘girlfriend’. Wh- my colleague. Her name is Donna.”

Honoria buries her head in her hands with a sigh.

“Yes,  _ her _ , Father, I told you- oh nevermind. Are you… are you coming to see- oh. Yes, I… I understand.”

Donna frowns, confused.

“Yes, yes, I do, really. I understand how busy you are.” Charles slumps back against his pillows again. “Yes, I’ll… I’ll take care. I know. I know. Is Mother-”

There’s a moment of silence.

And then Charles clears his throat, the phone lowered. “It seems he was finished with the conversation.”

“He’s n-not coming, is he?” Honoria asks frankly. 

“No, you know how spring is. He simply can’t get away.” Charles sets the phone down in his lap. “Neither of them can, apparently.”

“He p-probably heard your scruff down the phone line,” Honoria says, trying to smile. “You need a shave, you look like Tom Hanks’ stunt d-double in  _ Cast Away.” _

“It cannot be  _ that  _ bad,” Charles protests. 

Honoria digs a compact from her purse and passes it over. “S-See for yourself.”

He opens it, and studies his reflection, as Donna studies him. The stubble on his cheeks, after three days, is well on its way to being a full beard, and… well.

“Ah,” he says, closing it. “Norie, as usual, your penchant for exaggeration is your undoing.”

“Suit yourself, b-brother dear, but you  _ do  _ look awful haggard.”

“Well I cannot have  _ that.  _ Very well, Norie, bring me a razor.”

“Um.” Donna hesitates. “Chuck?”

“Yes?’

“I… rather like it, actually.”

“You do?”

“It’s very… dignified.”

He strokes his chin, thoughtfully, and she has to swallow hard, looking away. “Not yet, but… perhaps it could be.”

“Ignore her, she’s b-biased.”

“So are you,” Charles points out. “As is our father, who will no doubt hate it. As for myself… I like it.”

“Because of that, n-no doubt.”

“Oh hush, this isn’t… because of him, nor is it for him. It’s my damn face, and I’ll do what I damn well please with it!”

Honoria cracks up, as she grabs her phone back. “Y-You’re an idiot.”

“Plebian.”

“Snob.”

“Oh!” Charles gasps, clutching his chest, making Donna’s heart jump. “Your wit… it  _ mortally  _ wounds me.”

He’s met with silence.

“Too soon?” he asks, lowering his hand.

“D-Dipshit,” Honoria mutters, her face white.

“Sorry, I…” Charles clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“... I-It’s alright,” Honoria says at last. “But…”

“But?”

“I’m gonna get s-some coffee,” Honoria says at last, looking between them. “In the meantime, you two sh-should chat.”

She leans over and kisses Charles on the forehead, before turning and leaving.

“So,” Donna says, after she leaves. “Girlfriend, huh?”

“Ah, you… remembered. I did say that, didn’t I?”

This gives her pause. “Chuck, we don’t… I mean…”

“What?”

“We don’t have to be together,” she says at last. 

“I repeat:  _ what?” _

“I know we both said things- and I’m not taking it back!” she says hurriedly, seeing the look of alarm on his face. “But - Christ, I’m fucking this up - that doesn’t mean we have to be together. You know you’re… you’re my best friend, Chuck.”

“As you are mine,” he says slowly. 

“And if that’s all you ever want, then that’s okay. Okay? Being your best friend is… it’s not nothing. It’s… everything, really.”

_ “You  _ are everything,” he says softly. “Don’t you see? You are  _ my  _ best friend, and… and I consider myself privileged to be loved by you.”

“But nothing has to change,” she says hurriedly, giving him an out, because they are hanging off a precipice here, and all she wants is to offer him a hand. “Honest.”

“And you think dating would change things?” he asks, amused. “It wouldn’t, I assure you. All the things I love about you would be the same. All the things you do that drive me mad would be the same. The fact that I love you… would be the same.”

“Chuck…. Charles.” She looks him in the eye, and fears his answer. “Is dating me something you want?”

“Unquestionably,” he says softly. “I want it very much. I have for… for some time now.”

“Since the case started?” she asks, voicing the fear lurking in the back of her mind.

“No. Much, much longer.” He hesitates, then asks, “What do you want?”

“I want  _ you,”  _ she blurts out, and feels her cheeks heat up with a blush. “I mean I want to date you. I want to… be with you.”

“Truly?” 

“Yes.”

“Oh. You mean…”

“I mean I want to be with you.  _ All  _ of you,” she adds. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”

Charles sits back up, and takes both of her hands in his. “In that case, Donna… will you… that is to say, will you date me?”

“Fuck yes,” she says, surprising him into laughter for a second. “Yes!”

He leans in to kiss her, his stubble scraping against her cheeks, making her giggle as she kisses him. 

“Donna,” he breathes, pulling away. “Tell me this is real?”

“It’s real.”

“Oh God,” he laughs again, shuddery and almost a sob. “Oh thank God.”

“So, Dr. Winchester,” she teases gently, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. “What should our first official act as a couple be?”

“Well, not to be academic, but… I’d… that is to say… I’d like to know how we should go about this.”

“We can take it slow, darling. I’m not gonna move in next week or anything. I intend to fucking  _ savour  _ this.”

“Donna, you… you understand that even with moving slow, there are things… that won’t happen?” He looks anxious. “I won’t…”

“You won’t…?” she prompts, gently.

“I don’t know what you need, but I can’t- I really can’t-” he stammers. “My past- they- they-”

“Charles,” she cuts him off firmly. “I am not going to force you into anything, okay? You have… you don’t owe me anything.”

“You say that now,” he chokes out. “But Donna-”

“Charles. I know what I signed up for, okay? I said all of you, and I meant it, and I meant the you that I know and love. Why the fuck would I want to make you change?”

“Because  _ they  _ did.”

“Well frankly, they’re fucking awful for doing that! Look, I… I don’t understand what your past relationships have been like, but  _ that’s not me. _ I want what’s best for both of us, and that doesn’t include sex. It doesn’t make us any… less.”

“But don’t- don’t you- I mean, Donna, your… um.” He’s bright pink, averting his eyes. “Other women… er- do you have… needs?”

“Oh christ, darling, I don’t  _ have  _ needs. I have things I  _ want _ , but I don’t have  _ needs.” _

“Oh. And what do you…” he pauses. “What do you  _ want,  _ Donna?”

“I  _ want  _ you, Chuck. I want… fuck, I mean, not to be all sixties about it, but I want to hold your hand. I want to kiss you, properly, and I want you to kiss me. I want to cuddle with you, and spend time with you, and I just… you. And I want to know if you want it too.”

“Yes. But is that… all you want?”

“No,” she says, and feels him tense. “I want… I want us to talk about things, Chuck. I want to know everything about you. But most importantly, I want to know what  _ you  _ want, and if that changes, I want to know.”

“You will always be the first to know,” he assures her. “And I love you, have I said that lately?”

“I love you too, Chuck.”

She kisses him again, but they pull apart at the sound of a slow clap from the doorway.

“Fucking  _ finally,”  _ Honoria says, leaning against the doorframe. “Thought you two would n-never get your shit together.”

“Oh... Honoria. You’re back.”

“Yeah. And?”

“And I’d like you to meet Donna.” He smiles at her. “My girlfriend.”

“Oh, P-Prince Charles is gonna  _ hate  _ you,” Honoria says gleefully. “Welcome to the f-family.”


	23. Sunday, 10:18 AM

Charles is just settling in with his copy of the Sunday _ Post_, crossword in hand, struggling with the answer to 38 across, _ Military training unit_, when Kellye sticks her head in for the fifth time in an hour.

“How are you feeling today, Doctor?”

“Fine, Kellye, thank you,” he says, looking up with a smile. “You weren’t looking for my sister, were you? I’m afraid they’re not back yet.”

“Me? I’m a professional,” she teases. “I’m checking on my _ patient.” _

“Sure you are,” he says, looking back at his crossword.

“How’s the pain?”

“Mild,” he says, unconvincingly. It’s a dull throb in his chest, pain every time he tries to move, every time he takes a deep breath.

“Well you’re a lucky man, you know,” she says. “So far all your tests are coming up normal. No signs of infection, no symptoms of pneumonia.”

“Yes, well, I’ll be luckier if you can come up with the name of a military training unit. Five letters.”

“Hm.” She stops to think it over. “A troop?”

“No, ends in _ E.” _

She shrugs. “Sorry. Do you need anything else while I’m here?”

“You know what I’d _ really _enjoy is ten minutes to myself.”

“Sorry, Doctor, no can do. Your sister and girlfriend were _ very _strict about what’ll happen to me if I don’t keep an eye on you.”

“I can bribe you.”

“Your sister’s promised me something even better,” she teases. 

“Ugh.” He makes a face, as she laughs. “Surely you have other patients to attend to?”

“Yes, but none of them are starring in an action movie,” she says patiently. “Until we know for certain you’re safe-”

“Nurse Kellye,” he cuts her off, not unkindly. “In any event, my money would be on you.”

This makes her smile. “Fine, you win. I’ll go.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

He’s left in peace for a few minutes, just quiet and sunshine pouring in and his crossword, when the door opens.

“Nurse Kellye,” he starts, annoyed, as he looks up, but stops.

“Is th-that any way to talk to your f-favourite sibling?” Honoria asks, a hand on one hip, looking frighteningly like their mother for a second. 

“Need I point out that you are my _ only _sibling?” he asks, ignoring the ache the words cause.

“Currently,” she reminds him, dropping the duffle bag she’s carrying on the end of the bed. “H-Here, new jammies for you, since y-yours are _ rank, _ Charlie.”

“They are _ not.” _

“They smell like the inside of my h-hockey bag,” she reminds him, before collapsing into the chair. “And hospital gowns are s-so last season.”

“Where’s Donna?”

“She’s on the ph-phone.”

Donna walks in a second later, resplendent in the gold sundress she’s wearing, hair pulled back in a messy braid, her phone pressed to her ear and a tray of coffee clutched in one hand. 

For a second, Charles wonders just how high the dosage of medication he’s on is, because it sounds as though she’s speaking in gibberish.

And then it clicks that what he’s hearing is rapid-fire German, punctuated by the occasional laugh, and Charles only understands one word out of every three, but he can’t ignore how _ happy _she looks.

He shoots a quizzical look at Honoria, who shrugs. “D-Don’t look at me.”

Donna sets the tray of coffee down on the bedside table, nodding, and then holds the phone out to him. “Here, she wants to talk to you.”

“She? She who?”

“Mum. Here.” 

“Oh,” he pauses, uncertain, before taking the phone. “Really?”

“Trust me, she wants to talk to you. I think her maternal radar is going off,” Donna says with a smile, and he obliges, taking the phone.

He holds it up to his ear, and clears his throat. “Hello?”

He’s met with another burst of fast-paced German, making him blink, politeness giving way to confusion giving way to alarm. 

“Er-”

The voice continues, low and warm in his ear, and he isn’t sure but he thinks Donna’s mother is probably trying to hold back a laugh. He picks up maybe five words of the speech she’s giving him, his high school level German sorely lacking.

Donna laughs at the look on his face as she perches on the edge of the bed. 

“Who did you expect?” Donna’s mother asks, switching to English at last, her voice dry like a good wine, “Julie Andrews?”

“Hello…” he tries cautiously, clearing his throat. “Mrs… er-”

“Call me Penny,” she says, laughing. “That’s some accent you’ve got there, Charles - I can call you Charles, right?”

“Wh- oh, yes, Charles… Charles is fine. And you- I mean, your accent is… nice.”

He can tell she’s still smiling. “Thanks. So how you holding up, kid?”

“... Getting there.”

“I heard you got shot.”

“Yes, I did.”

“That hurts, I hear.”

“Well, I’m… I’m recovering nicely, if the doctors are to be believed.”

“Well you’ve had, what… a week to recover?” he asks, and he can almost picture her leaning over a desk in a newsroom, muttering into a phone _ just the facts. _Though where he conjures that mental image from, he isn’t sure.

“Yes, it… it was a week ago,” he says, watching as Donna takes a coffee from the tray, dumping in cream and sugar, still tapping her fingers on the side of her cup absentmindedly as she listens in. “I should recover fully. Barring any further infections or pneumonia.”

“Well. That’s a relief, I imagine.”

“Though I remain weakened by it,” he says, clearing his throat again, and sees Donna tense out of the corner of his eye. “The doctors did say I would make a full recovery, but it’ll take time for my strength to return-”

She cuts him off. “Charles, dear, don’t give me medical bullshit, okay? I want to know how you’re _ doing.” _

“In pain,” he admits. “Not entirely welcome, but… expected.”

“Well, being shot is a hell of a shock to the system. Physically… _ and _mentally.”

“I know,” he says, barely choking out the words.

“Charles, dear, I’d hate to pry, but have you considered talking to someone about it?”

“... Talking to someone?” he repeats, hating how his voice shakes.

“Forgive me for being forward, but I figure since you’re dating my daughter I can be honest with you: get your head checked out. You’ve been through something incredibly scary and fucked-up, you know? The last thing you want is for it to take over your brain.”

“I suppose so, but I… I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Most hospitals have trauma specialists now, and onsite therapy, I’m sure they could get you a referral,” she suggests, oddly gentle. “Nobody needs a fucked-up head.”

“How are you such a wise woman?” he asks, trying to hide how touched he is.

“Wise? Ha! I’ve just lived long enough to see some shit. Besides, if I was closer, I’d drag your ass to therapy personally.”

This makes him smile. “Noted.”

“But… you _ are _doing okay?” she asks.

“Overall, yes.”

“Good. Great. And speaking of great, it’s about time you and Donna figured it out!”

“God, did everyone know?” he asks.

“I’m a mother, Charles, I know everything. That, and it would take a true ignoramus to miss the fact that my daughter is utterly taken with you.”

“Lucky for her, it’s… rather mutual,” he says, looking over at Donna, who is watching him rather intently back. She gives him a radiant smile.

It takes him a moment to realize Penny is still talking. “... Beg pardon?”

“I just said,” she says, her voice low and warm like a few fingers of Four Roses, “that I really hope you two look after each other.”

“I can’t speak for her,” he says, watching Donna, “but I intend to do my best.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Take care of each other, okay? And look after yourself too, alright?”

“I will.” He exchanges a smile with Donna. “Thank you, Penny.”

“Pshaw. It’s a mother’s prerogative to check in with her kids.”

“Shall I give your love to Donna?” he asks.

“Oh, she knows,” Penny says lightly, with all the confidence of a mother who has a good relationship with her children. “But remind her she’s brilliant for me, would you?”

“I can do that, I think.”

“Right. Bye Charles.”

_ “Auf Wiedersehen,” _he says, a little bold, making her laugh, and Donna smile. He passes the phone back to Donna. “Your mother is…”

There’s a flicker of fear in her eyes. “Terrifying? Nosy?”

“Wonderful,” he says quietly. “Involved. And like her daughter, brilliant.”

“Kiss-ass,” she teases.

“B-By the way, Charlie, I want t-to lodge a complaint about your h-house,” Honoria cuts in, sipping her own coffee. “Your Oreos were st-stale.”

“Take it up with my assailant,” he retorts. 

“What she means to say is everything was fine at your place,” Donna says, before Honoria can continue. “And my _ God _, Charles, what a place! You never told me you live like a millionaire!”

“It is not my standard practice to show women my trust fund before the first date,” he replies dryly, but can’t resist a smile. “You like it?”

“It’s beautiful!”

“And utterly w-wasted on him,” Honoria adds, crossing her arms. 

“I mean…” Donna trails off. “The _ history _of the building alone, is… it’s fascinating!”

“See, Norie, _ some _people appreciate my sense of taste,” Charles says, feeling a trifle smug.

Honoria just sticks her tongue out at him. “Dingus.”

“Dullard.”

“Oaf.” Honoria grins. “And I’d w-watch out for Donna, Charlie, I think she’s just using you for your antique lift, giant batht-tub and your view of the Washington m-monument.”

“There was a view of the Washington monument?” Donna asks, amazed.

“Y-Yeah?” Honoria asks, baffled. “In the sunroom?”

“Oh.”

“D-Don’t know how you can miss the f-fucking Washington monument,” Honoria teases.

“Fuck off.” Donna tosses a creamer at her.

“Just f-for that, I’m not sharing my d-doughnuts with you,” Honoria says, sticking her nose in the air.

“Just as well, since you forgot to bring them in,” Donna replies.

Honoria cringes. “... I’ll be back.”

“Did you get Boston creams?” Charles asks as Honoria stands up.

“Would I have d-dared show my face here if I d-didn’t?” Honoria asks with a grin. “T-Try and stay p-put, would you?”

She leaves, as Donna puts her coffee on the nightstand, and sits back down beside him on the bed, leaning in to look over his crossword clues. “That’s a ‘cadre’.”

“What?”

“Cadre,” she says, looking up at him. “Military training unit.”

“Your mother is right, you are brilliant. Alright, let’s see… 31 down, meaning among other things, irritated. Third letter is an L.”

“Hm…” She stops to think. “Malcontent?”

“You rang?” Pierce asks, sticking his head around the door as Charles pencils it in.

“Hi Hawkeye,” she says, not looking up from the crossword clues. “I thought Nurse Kellye banned you from visiting?”

“We sweet talked her into our way of thinking,” Pierce says with a grin. “And even Nurse Kellye isn’t immune to the charms of… Prince Valiant.”

“Ignore him,” Hunnicutt says, shoving Pierce through the door. “We had to promise to never race wheelchairs down the halls again.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“We’ve come to give you your next undercover case,” Pierce says cheerfully. “How do you feel about being pregnant?”

“Mostly nauseous,” she answers. “You two are fucking idiots, you know that?”

“I may be an idiot, but I make it a policy never to fuck them,” Pierce says.

“He’s… kidding. Mostly. I hope,” Hunnicutt says, rolling his eyes.

“Well,” comes a voice from the doorway that makes them both freeze. “About as good a time as any to say this ain’t a social call.”

Charles tries to sit up, feeling the panic swell behind his breastbone at the sight of Sherman Potter standing in his doorway. 

Donna cringes. “... Sorry.”

Potter shrugs, looking like he’s trying to hide a smile. “Nothing new under the sun, Donna.”

Charles finally manages to sit up. “Sir- Potter, what a pleasure.”

“At ease son, smoke if you’ve got ‘em.” Potter gives him the once-over. “Boy, you look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Feel like it too, sir. What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for a mission briefing of sorts.”

“We have new information that needs to be conveyed with utmost urgency contingent on the fact that Charles here is being released today.”

Even though it’s said without a phony accent, Charles still blinks. “Are you mocking me?”

“What?” Pierce gives him a look like he’s crazy. “What do you mean?”

“I was unaware you had so many large words in your vocabulary. Why are you imitating me?”

“… I wasn’t?”

“Anyway,” Potter cuts in, eyeing them. “We’ve got fresh poop on this Flagg SNAFU.”

“Did we get him?” Donna asks.

“Got him.”

“Good,” Charles says softly.

“Checked into a hospital two days ago in Maryland, calling himself Sam Halloran,” BJ adds.

“And full of pony pies when it came to a cover story. He’s under lock and key while he recovers, on the state’s dime.” Potter eyes Donna. “Seems somebody stabbed him.”

“Must’ve been quite the disagreement,” Donna says, her voice neutral.

“Must’ve been, since he was chock full of nasty stuff.” Hunnicutt grins. “Hell of a shot, kid.”

“And haven’t I been saying it all along?” Charles asks smugly. “You’re brilliant.”

She rolls her eyes, but he can see she's secretly pleased as she ducks her head. 

“And this was found on his person,” Potter says.

“Or at least what was left of it,” Pierce chimes in, as Potter holds up the evidence bag, a familiar hair clip gleaming deceptively inside.

It makes Charles’s heart skip a beat to see it. 

“An oddly smart move,” he says thoughtfully, trying to mask his reaction. “All things considered.”

“How do you figure?”

“He knew he’d been jabbed, knew enough to know he was poisoned. So he kept the blade- know the poison, know the antidote,” Donna says. “Probably saved his life.”

“Even lunatics get lucky on occasion,” Hawk agrees. “Gold star for the lady.”

“I’d settle for getting my hair clip back. It was custom made in Tokyo, you know.”

“What were you doing, getting weapons made in Tokyo?”

Donna holds her chin up. “A lady never tells. Besides, I never said it was made for _ me _.”

“You’ll get your hatpin back, Madame,” Potter assures her. 

“Even though it’s technically evidence at the moment,” Hunnicutt adds.

“Well, I’m just a forgetful old man,” Potter says with a shrug, but he winks at Donna. “Maybe I’ll take it out to study it once the case is closed - it’s a unique old weapon, ya know - and just… forget to put it back.”

“You’re a prince,” Donna says, relieved.

“I care for my people, ma’am. And you and Winchester here are my people.”

“I- thank you sir.”

“And that was good work you two did,” he says. “Kudos to both of you.”

“Stopped treason, caught the bad guy…” Pierce grins. “Not a bad week for a couple of antiquities experts, huh?”

“We have performed admirably under the circumstances,” Charles agrees. 

“That you have,” Potter says, with a grin. “My other reason for stoppin’ by was to say was that as of today, we’re back to normal. No more sneaking around and play-acting. We have a reputation for honest work, and I expect all of us to live up to it. Strictly by the book, you hear?”

“Loud and/or clear, sir,” Charles mumbles, sharing a smile with Donna. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Potter.

“And I may not have a rule about fraternization, but I’ll make one if I have to. I’m the boss here, okey dokey?”

“Okey dokey,” Donna agrees, clearly relieved.

“But-”

“Say okey dokey, Winchester.”

Charles clears his throat. “Okey dokey.”

“Now that _ that’s _settled,” Hawk says, pulling a bottle of champagne and some plastic cups from his bag. “How about we celebrate?”

“You brought champagne?” Donna asks.

“Well, I know you normally bring grapes, but this is the best I could do on short notice. Non-alcoholic too.”

“Good enough,” Charles says with feeling.

“Set ‘em up, Joe,” Donna says, holding out her empty coffee cup in place of a champagne glass. Hawk opens the champagne, and Charles flinches at the pop of the cork. The champagne is poured and passed around. “What shall we drink to? Dirt? Dirty dreams? Dirty dancing? Dirty white boys?”

“To a job well done,” Potter says, cutting him off. “Even if it was a mite unorthodox.”

“Which of our cases aren’t?” Hunnicutt asks. 

Potter nods. “Point taken. But I'll do one better- to the team.”

“To love and friendship,” Charles says, clearing his throat. He feels silly when everyone looks at him.

But Donna, his sweet Donna, bumps her cup against his. “Love and friendship,” she says softly.

For a second, they’re the only two people in the room. 

“Now that that’s settled,” Potter says, patting Charles on the shoulder. “I’ve got some fires to put out with the alphabet soup gang, so I’ll be on my way. Get some rest, Winchester, you’ve earned it. And I don’t want to see you darkening our door until you’re 100% better, got it?”

“Yes sir, and thank you,” Charles says, and then Potter is gone.

“We should get going too,” Hawkeye says, standing up. “There’s a whole station of nurses that haven’t gotten any champagne yet. And at least one doctor who I wouldn’t mind giving me a physical.”

“Brazen hussy,” BJ says affectionately. “You’d date a tree trunk if it meant you could sleep with it.”

“Well, sure,” Hawk says with a grin. “I love a good woody.”

“Pierce, you really are crude and boorish.”

“Crude and boorish! That’s the title of my autobiography.”

“What are you d-dipshits up to?” Honoria asks, walking in. “I can hear you c-clear out at the nurses’ st-station.”

“What were you doing at the nurses’ station?” Hawk demands.

“P-Passing out doughnuts of c-course,” she says with a grin. “And sw-weet-talking Kellye into giving me her number.”

Hawk’s mouth drops open. “You _ what _?”

“Yeah, we’re g-getting dinner tonight.”

“But you and Nurse Kellye hate each other!”

“Let’s go, Hawk, you can drown the rest of your sorrows,” BJ says, tugging him out. “Take care, you two. Nice seeing you again, Honoria.”

“A-Always a laugh, Honeydew.”

He rolls his eyes but grins as he leaves.

“Do I n-need to change you myself?” Honoria asks, looking Charles over, shaking her head in disapproval, as Donna tosses the remnants of the champagne and coffee in the garbage.

“Here, Chuck,” Donna says, pulling the blue pyjamas out of his bag. “I’ll help, shall I?”

His cheeks heat with a blush, and then he clears his throat. “If… If you don’t mind?”

“I offered, didn’t I?” she asks, amused.

“You did. Norie, kindly get out.”

“Just r-remember, we used to _ b-bathe _together,” Honoria points out, before leaving. “And I’m t-taking the doughnuts!”

“To be _ fair,” _Charles says, trying not to grin, “we were children then.”

“I figured as much,” Donna says with a laugh, before looking him over. “How are we going to go about this?”

“I could… shift…”

“Could you sit on the edge here?” she asks as she stands up, helping him move over, slowly, the pain burning across his chest like a brand, but eventually he’s sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “Okay, good.”

“I need to put pants on,” he tells her. “I’m feeling a draft, and an even more uncomfortable sympathy for Klinger.”

“All in good time, darling,” she tells him, reaching around to help untie the top of his gown.

“No, no, I can stand, I need…” He tries to tug on the pants, failing miserably, and tries to stand up. 

“Wait, Chuck,” she tries, but then he’s on his feet.

He wobbles for a second, feeling rather like Bambi, and turns to Donna, giving her a proud smile. “See, I told you-”

And then his knees go weak, and he pitches forward, Donna barely catching him in time, the sudden burst of adrenaline making his heart pound. 

“Glad I caught you,” she says, holding him up, and he can’t help but smile, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“Me too.”

She helps him back to the edge of the bed, shaking her head to herself. “C’mon, Chuck.”

“Don’t you dare say I told you so,” he warns.

“Would I do that?” she asks. “Lift up for a sec, okay?”

He shifts a little, wincing at the flare of pain as he does, feeling hideously weak and pathetic, having to rely on Donna even to put pants on, bracing himself as she helps tug his pyjama pants up his legs, with a good amount of breathless swearing on her part as she gets him into his pants.

“How strange,” he says when they take a break, out of breath, “Usually women want to get me out of my pants.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re silly.”

“And you’re brilliant,” he reminds her, as she helps pull off the hospital gown, exposing the bandages across his chest, and the pale skin of his belly. 

He resists the urge to cross his arms over his chest, resists the urge to cover himself, to hide, and instead keeps his hands at his sides.

She ducks around behind him. “Right arm?”

He moves, wincing as her fingers brush over the black and blue bruises on the inside of his arm. “Careful. Careful! … Please.”

She moves slowly, her hands warm on his arm, as she helps him into the one sleeve of his shirt. “Can you do the other one?”

“Yes, I… I think so.” He pulls the other sleeve on, and then nearly jumps out of his skin as she presses a gentle kiss to the back of his neck.

He’s unable to resist the jab as she circles back around to sit beside him. “I look positively beastly, don’t I?”

She takes in the sight, the white bandages, the bare chest, the beard, and raises an eyebrow, before pressing a gentle hand over his heart, and quoting, a soft smile on her face, _ “Behold, a man.” _

He blushes pink, and the words tumble out. “I love you.”

This surprises her, but after a second, she smiles. “I love you too.”

Even now, the act of being so undressed, so vulnerable, so laid bare, in front of anyone… it isn’t nothing.

But all Donna does is help him button his shirt, as his fingers tremble, before wrapping her arm around his waist and leaning in against him. “Is that better?”

“Much. I…” He doesn’t know what to say in the wake of this quiet intimacy. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, darling.”

“Though I suggest you stay here,” he says, smelling cherry blossoms and coffee, as he presses his face against her hair. “Since you’re about the only thing keeping me steady. Which… ah. Reminds me, I have a gift for you.”

“Oh? Something nice, I hope.”

In response, he holds up the hair clip, still in its evidence bag, and watches as several emotions flicker across her face. “How- what-”

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” he says smugly, before pressing the bag into her hand. “But this, I believe, belongs to you.”

“Oh, Chuck, I- that’s evidence.” 

“Well, I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She smiles, running her fingers over the edges through the bag, her eyes hazy with tears. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“And… I have to confess, I have something for you too,” she admits. “I found it at your place.”

Then she’s passing over a napkin, looking a little ragged around the edges, and he looks down, only to find the doodle of himself as Indiana Jones, the one she’d done in the diner while he’d told the Cairo story (what feels like an eternity ago).

Written on the corner of the napkin, in Donna’s elegant scrawl, is a brief message: _ You are all of my adventures. Love, Donna _

“Oh.”

“It’s not much of a get well present, but…” she trails off, and smiles up at him. “But I’m ready for the next adventure when you are, Indy.”

He looks down at the drawing again, runs his fingers over the ink, and thinks of how good it would look framed, before looking up at Donna again, her face aglow in the sunlight pouring in. “Onto the next adventure, then.”


	24. Wednesday, 11:13 AM

"Did you want to bring any of these flowers home?" Donna asks, surveying the jungle of flowers surrounding Charles's bed. “I feel like I shouldn’t go near these without a machete.”

"Only the sunflowers," he says from his spot at the edge of the bed. "Distribute the rest, I suppose. Home?"

"Your home, obviously," she says, and he has the grace to look away as she turns pink.

He'd like to get up and help her, but he's under strict orders not to overexert himself. "Did you want help?"

"Don't you dare move an inch," she tells him.

“Donna, moving flowers is hardly the twelve labors of Heracles.” It’s a feeble protest. “I was an athlete once, you know.”

“I don’t care if you were an Olympic athlete, Chuck, what you are right now is injured.” 

“The doctors said I was improving.”

“Can’t you just humor me?” she asks, turning to give him a look of fond exasperation, hands on her hips.

“Very well.” 

She keeps picking through the flowers, and he thinks he hears her humming bits of the theme to _ Little Shop of Horrors _as she does. "Who were the sunflowers from?"

He pulls the note from the bedside table, and clears his throat as he flips it open. "Our dearest Charles, we heard that you were on the cusp of sainthood! They couldn't have picked a holier man for the job."

"Hawkeye?" she asks, surprised, and he grins at her, before continuing. 

"If you're ever in need of a personal physician, please don't hesitate to come up to Maine," he says, still grinning. "Where we'll be pleased to tend to your every desire personally. And your every person desirably."

She laughs. "That sounds like a Pierce-ism."

"That's because it is. I read on: Hawkeye has let it slip that you and Donna are dating, so please know that she's welcome too. I'm sure she'll be thrilled to know it's almost blueberry season. Get well soon. All our love..." he smiles, brushing his fingers over the signature. "Thalia and Daniel."

Donna shakes her head. "I see why you want to keep the sunflowers. Do you think you'll go?"

He looks up at her, as she plucks one of the sunflower petals, letting it fall to the floor, determinedly not looking at him. "Of course we should.”

Her head jolts up, and now she is looking at him, clearly surprised. "We? You mean- us?"

"Well I'm hardly going to ask Dr. McIntyre, am I?" he asks in return, smiling. "I'd much rather be accompanied by my girlfriend."

“Well that’s a relief,” she replies dryly, her shoulders relaxed. “Besides, Dr. McIntyre isn’t your type.”

“True, my type at the moment is, well… you.”

Kellye sticks her head around the door. “How’s it going in here?”

“We’re just packing up… mostly waiting on my sister.”

“She’s signing paperwork.”

“She’s been signing paperwork for ages.”

“There’s a lot of it!”

“Nurse Kellye,” Charles says sternly. “Have you been distracting my sister?”

Kellye grins. “Can I help at all in here?”

“Nice subject change.”

“Yes,” Charles says. “Could you distribute these flowers to the patients on the floor for us?”

“Sure,” Kellye says, on her way out again, “I’ll get on that once I’m sure I’ve gotten rid of you. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!”

“Fancy that, I’m the thing that wouldn’t leave,” Charles tells Donna, who laughs. “Don’t forget to erase the whiteboard, alright?”

She looks over at the whiteboard, where _ QUESTION BOARD _ is written in her hasty scrawl. “That’s important data, Chuck.”

“Donna,” he says, exasperated. “It’s just a reminder that I asked you to dinner… along with a tally of the number of times I asked why Pierce was hitting on Dr. Newsome.”

“It was to help you, alright?” she asks, walking over and sitting beside him on the bed. 

“I don’t see how-”

“I just… don’t want you to forget.”

“I won’t.” He takes her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, as she leans against his shoulder. “Do you think we’re ready?”

“As we’ll ever be. How are you feeling?”

“Knitted and _ purled,” _he assures her.

She turns her head to glare up at him. 

“I’m fine, really. Sore and tired, and… and grateful.”

She squeezes his hand. “Me too.”

“And very… _ very _glad to be going home,” he admits quietly. “It will be good to stand on my own.”

“And I’ll be there if you need me,” she tells him, lifting her head. “I promise, Chuck, anything you need.”

“Well…” he says, easing to his feet. “There is one thing I was hoping you could help me with.”

His knees wobble again, but don’t give way, as he very slowly bows to her.

“Chuck-”

“Donna.” He brushes his thumb across her knuckles, before kissing her hand. “Will you dance with me?”

She stands, and smiles, before sinking into a low curtsy, laughing as she nearly falls over and clutching his hand like a lifeline. “I’d be delighted, Chuck.”

This time, the clumsiness is on his part, awkward and easily winded, though the steps are engraved in his memory, Donna’s skirt twirling around her as they dance.

It’s unhurried and dreamy, and his eyes are fixed on her, the two of them waltzing around the hospital room, one of those rare precious moments where everything seems right.

Donna smells like cherry blossoms and coffee, her hair falling loose around her face, the two of them dancing without music, perfectly in time.

It’s slower this time, and gentler, Donna smiling up at him as they waltz through the beams of sunlight, his hand finding its place on the small of her back, though it’s more like she’s holding him up and not the other way around, leaving him suddenly breathless.

He could have lost all of this, could have…

“Darling?” she asks, quietly, looking up at him. “Are you alright?”

“Oh my dear, you have no idea.”

As they slow into the final spin, their eyes meet, so slow and peaceful, and entirely electric, and he isn’t sure if he’s breathless from the exertion or from the fact that she is in his arms, and she is _ his. _

Her eyes flicker to his lips, delighting him, because this is theirs and it is allowed.

They’ve stopped, and he isn’t sure he’s breathing, the two of them staring at each other as he holds her. 

“I never thought…” she says, and shakes her head, breaking the spell. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to do this again.”

“Well, you’ll have to get used to it,” he tells her, letting go of her hand in order to tilt up her chin. “There isn’t anyone else I want to dance with.”

“Oh.”

Donna reaches up then, as if she can’t bear another second of not touching him, her fingers brushing over his cheeks, and the laughter lines around his eyes, which crinkle with a smile as she touches him, stroking his neatly-trimmed beard, a smile curving the corners of her mouth, before cupping his face in her hands, as if she’s still trying to memorize his features.

Without saying a word, he turns so that his lips are against her palm, a gentle kiss pressed to her lifeline.

She swallows hard, looking up at him with wide eyes, before standing on her toes and kissing him, gently, her mouth soft against his, the way he wishes she’d have kissed him that night at the motel.

He wraps his arms tightly around her, running his fingers through her curls, giving silent but utterly heartfelt thanks for her.

“Get dinner with me,” he says again, quietly, and her laughter is muffled in his shirt. 

“Are you t-two-” Honoria stops in the doorway, taking in the sight of the two of them. “Oh for fuck’s s-sake.”

“Well, Chuck,” Donna says, pulling away, and they both pretend their eyes are dry. “Home?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” she says, gesturing to the door. “Let’s go. Make way for ducklings!”

“Eh?”

“It’s a children’s book,” Donna says, mystified. “Did nobody read to you as a child?”

“No,” Charles and Honoria say at the same time.

“Sad.” Donna says, as they turn to leave, before she stops in her tracks, frowning. “Chuck?”

“What?”

“Shouldn’t… shouldn’t you be wearing something warmer?”

He blinks, confused. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s just… it’s not very hot today, and if you go out in just your shirt, you’ll be cold.”

“I won’t be,” he says, grinning. “I’ll be in pants too.”

Honoria grins too, but Donna doesn’t. “Chuck.”

“You do understand I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself?”

“Yes, but… to quote you, Chuck, it’s not as if I mind.”

“Oh. Very well.”

“Oh here, you useless f-fuck,” Honoria says, tugging something crimson from Charles’s bag, and tossing it to him “A-As requested.”

“What’s that?”

Charles holds it up. “See?”

“Oh my god. Is that… A letterman jacket?” Donna asks, amazed. 

“Crew and polo,” he says proudly.

“Gesundheit,” Donna teases, before stepping forward, running her fingers over the material. “Oh _ wow, _Chuck, this is…”

“Don’t you dare say vintage,” he warns. “I know it’s rather… high school, but…”

“Darling, if this was high school, I’d feel like a cradle robber,” she teases in return. “Does this mean we’re going steady?”

“Oh I don’t know,” he replies, his voice quiet. “I think I’ll be steady as long as I’m with you.”

Her cheeks turn pink. “Oh.”

“Besides, my dear,” he says, as he tugs it on. “This is not a _ high school _letterman jacket. It’s from Harvard.”

“And where’s that again?” Donna asks, innocently, and he pauses in adjusting the sleeves, to shoot a narrow look in her direction.

“It’s a c-community college,” Honoria adds.

Donna blinks, looking him up and down, from the beard, to the jacket, to the purple chucks Max brought as a get well present, her eyes wide.

He isn’t sure why she’s looking at him like that, and as she takes him all in, her eyes grow wider and wider, stepping closer to smooth out the creases in his letterman jacket, before she looks up at him.

“Not to get all sixties, but…” she says, a little faintly. “Let’s go steady.”

“Let’s,” he breathes.

“Are you always l-like this?” Honoria asks, bored, and they jump apart.

“Out, Norie.”

“What?”

“I said _ out_.”

“Fine.” Honoria grabs his bags from the floor. “Pack mule express now leaving to all points civilized. I’ll meet you down at the car.”

She stalks out.

“Are we ready?” Charles asks Donna again, quietly, shaking her from her trance.

“Oh, I-I think so?”

She loops her arm through his as they walk out to the elevator, pausing to say goodbye to the nurses, before getting in the elevator.

As they descend, Charles glances down at her.

“What?” 

“Nothing, just…” He smiles. “You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.” She sighs, and then, after a pause in which he watches her steel herself, she asks, “Chuck, listen, about our dinner date-”

“Not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No! God no.”

“Then-”

“I’m buying,” she warns.

“Why?”

“Because you saved my life, and the least I can do is buy you dinner. Not to mention, you’re my boyfriend, Chuck, and you deserve to be spoiled. _ And, _I want to hear about all of those things you said you couldn’t tell me until we had dinner together.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “I… I don’t remember.”

“Something about kissing me properly, I believe. About being... us.”

“That… seems fair,” he admits, as the elevator doors open.

“I thought so,” she says, the two of them walking towards the doors.

The spring sunshine is brilliant and bright outside the lobby, and he stops her. “Wait.”

“What?”

He pulls her hair clip from his pants’ pocket, gold edges glittering in the sunlight, and Donna’s mouth drops open.

“How did you-”

“I thought if… if we’re going home together, it ought to be in style.” 

“Oh.”

He very gently tucks it behind her ear. “There. I’m afraid I don’t have any… grand speeches.”

She laughs, as they step into the daylight, and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. "It's all been done."


	25. Four Sundays Later, 9:16 AM

Sunday morning arrives peacefully, an arm slung haphazardly over Charles’s waist, a warm body at his back, legs tangled with his, and he’s never felt so safe.

The arm is familiar, as is the scent of cherry blossoms weaving into the haze of his half-awake dreams.

He’d know her anywhere.

The room is quiet, aside from the sound of birds chirping outside the open window, carried in on a late spring breeze with the smell of fresh air, and he can’t bring himself to be annoyed by the birds waking him, because it allows him to savour this, to feel safe, and warm, curled up with Donna-

His eyes open when Donna sighs in her sleep behind him.

The sunlight is pouring in through the curtains, bright and dazzling, falling in patches on the faded blue quilt he and Donna are tucked under.

He is perfectly content to snuggle back in and close his eyes, because it is a perfect day: him and Donna with nowhere to be.

Donna’s arm tightens around his waist as she presses her forehead against his back, her breath warming him as she whispers, “Stay.”

It’s a profound relief this morning, as it is every morning, that she is still here when he wakes, and if anyone should beg the other to stay, it is surely him. 

But they are both alive, and this is theirs, they have earned it, and he could do this glorious little waltz of theirs as long as she’ll have him, because she is _ his. _

He carefully shifts onto his back, lifting her arm out of the way, the pain in his chest flaring up as he turns again to face her. He lets her arm fall back into place across his hip, the weight of it possessive and reassuring, claiming territory.

Her eyes are still closed, her mouth half-open, laughter lines around her eyes that will someday be called distinguished smoothed out in rest, and he can count the tiny freckles dotting her nose.

He gently strokes her cheekbone, caresses the raw scar that goes through her eyebrow, before brushing her hair back from her face, her mouth curving into a smile as she sleeps.

Her eyes slowly open, her smile widening as she looks at him.

“Go back to sleep,” he tells her softly. “It’s early.”

In the morning sunlight, she’s alight with radiance, and he understands why the muses were women. 

Then she yawns, stretching as she does, and he grins as she makes a noise like a contented cat.

“No nightmares.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

“You didn’t have any nightmares,” she persists, her eyes bright. 

“You didn’t either. One of the… the better nights,” he agrees, his voice hushed in the sunny sanctuary of his quiet bedroom.

She raises her hand in benediction to press her palm to his chest, against his heartbeat, and after a second his hand covers hers.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, for what is probably the thousandth time. It’s unsaid but understood what he means.

_ Thank you for my life. _

She nods, giving him a smile. “No charge.”

She snuggles in against him, his hand coming up to stroke her hair, and he presses his face into her curls, breathing her in, and whispers an “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she tells him, her hand still pressed against his chest. “It’s nice to wake up like this.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, resting his chin on top of her head. “I rather like this, actually.”

“Oh? Which part?”

“Your arms wrapped around me, it makes…” Embarrassed, he buries his face again, his voice muffled in her hair. “You make me feel safe, Donna.”

“Oh.” He’s not looking at her, but he can tell she’s smiling. “Really?”

He pulls away, his cheeks hot, and kisses her forehead. “Truly.”

He wants, for a brief and foolish second, to tell her how he sleeps better with her by his side, but before he can, she kisses him, soft and leisurely. 

When she pulls away she studies his face for a second and smiles. “There.”

“Thank you.”

“For what, morning breath?” she teases.

“For being here,” he tells her. “For… for being mine, even though…”

“Shut up.” She presses a finger to his lips, stopping him. “Don’t act like I’m doing something noble by sticking around, okay? Don’t. Seriously, Chuck, I… I love you. There’s no buts, no exceptions, I’m not _ settling, _alright?”

“But-”

“What did I just say? I love you. Want me to say it again?”

“I was only going to say that I have no idea where your finger has been, so can you kindly remove it from my mouth?”

She blinks, lowering her hand. “Your mind’s in the gutter, Chuck.”

“Takes one to know one, I think. Tit for tat, you know,” he shoots back, and she laughs. “Though I can think of something more suited for my mouth, come to that.”

“O-Oh?”

“Breakfast,” he says, lightly tapping the end of her nose with his finger. _ “Breakfast, _my dear. Whose mind is it that’s in the gutter again?”

“Shut up,” she says, her cheeks pink. “I knew the whole time what you meant. What sort of breakfast?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you even have to ask?”

“Oh. Um. Right. I’ll just… I’ll just. Breakfast.”

He laughs, and kisses her. “Just a few more minutes of this, if you don’t mind.”

“But Chuck, we can’t waste the day,” she protests, laughing in fond exasperation as she tries to pull away.

“Waste?” he asks, mock-affronted. _ “Waste? _My dear, the only thing that will be going to waste is my best skill! It could atrophy!”

“And what skill is that?”

“I’m good in bed,” he tells her, his mouth twitching into a smile. “I can sleep for days, you know.”

She blinks, and then after a second, smiles. “That’s why I’m dating you.”

“So you can sleep with me?” he asks, and the moment passes.

She starts laughing, pulling her pillow out from under her head and walloping him with it. 

“Hey!”

“As it happens, I’m good in bed too,” she tells him, smacking him again with the pillow, still giggling, and he can’t help laughing too, holding his hands up in vain to block her blows, his chest aching.

“Is this…” he wheezes in between giggles. “Is this what they mean by the term pillow princess?”

“Oh Jesus. _ Chuck!” _She smacks him even harder with her pillow while he doubles up, breathless with laughter, still holding up his arms so she won’t hit him. “Where do you even come up with this stuff?”

“Urban… Urban Dictionary,” he deadpans breathlessly, his chest actively hurting by now, but he can’t stop laughing, Donna still leaning over him.

He manages to grab her wrists, the laughter dying on his lips as the pillow drops between them, her pulse quick under his fingers.

Her face is still flushed with laughter, eyes sparkling, curls tumbling around her face, and his eyes flicker to her lips.

“You are very skilled in bed,” he says, softly, once he has the breath to speak, and he has to kiss her, as many times as she wants.

“I’m a featherweight,” she whispers back, and leans in to kiss him, and prudence dictates he should close his eyes, but prudence can go to hell, his eyes are fixed on her as her lips brush against his.

It’s glorious, without interruption, slow and soft, and she smiles against his mouth, giggling as she pulls away.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because, this…” She runs her fingers over his beard. “It tickles.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I didn’t say I minded.” She tosses the quilt back. “Breakfast?”

“Breakfast.”

She turns over so she can climb off the bed, but then she stops, and turns back. “Chuck…?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“You didn’t really find that on Urban Dictionary, did you?”

“Of course I did!” He says, and when she gives him a skeptical look, he sheepishly adds, “... after I saw it on Hawkeye’s twitter.”

This makes her laugh.

“Don’t worry, I learned my lesson.”

“I bet,” she says, standing up, looking adorably disheveled in an oversized Harvard shirt she’s borrowed from him (one he probably won’t get back), her hair a snarl of riotous Medusa curls, and she smiles. “I’ll go start on breakfast.”

He lies there for a few minutes after she leaves, picking up Donna’s pillow and clutching it to his chest, the ache migrating from his chest to his face as he grins like an idiot. 

Then, muffled through the walls, in the kitchen, slightly off-key, he hears something unexpected: Donna is _ singing. _

_ “People say in Boston, even beans do it…” _

He gets up, still moving with caution, grabbing his robe from the foot of the bed to tug it on, and kneeling to pull the little box from under the bed, and tucking it into his pocket, before shuffling down the hall to join Donna in the kitchen, the hardwood cool on his feet.

She’s sitting on the counter, a bowl balanced on her lap, her legs bare, singing off-key to Queen under her breath as she drops fresh blueberries into her bowl.

Charles takes in the sight of her, so at home in his kitchen, watching her eat a couple of blueberries for every handful she puts in the bowl. “Blueberry pancakes?”

She makes a face. “Call me predictable.”

When he doesn’t say anything, she looks up, and frowns.

“What?”

“Oh, you just… you have pancake batter on your nose.”

This makes her smile, but all she does is flick a blueberry at him, laughing when it bounces off his nose.

“I wouldn’t waste those if I were you.”

“As if Thalia wouldn’t jump at the chance to send you more,” Donna points out, stirring more into the batter, some still smeared across her nose, laughing as she does, before tossing another blueberry at him.

He steps gingerly over the fallen one, and walks over to stand between her knees, taking the bowl from her lap and setting it on the counter beside her, shoving his canopic jar of cookies out of the way. 

And then he cups her face in his hands and leans down to kiss her, as she grabs him by the waist and hauls him in closer, and when he kisses her, it will never stop feeling like his truest self.

When he pulls away, she just whispers, “it’s nice to be home.”

“H-Home?” he squeaks out, because he is thinking it, but to say it out loud is to speak it into being where it can be ruined… or it can come true. To get his hopes up only for them to be violently dashed-

“Hey, hey, Chuck. Chuck,” she says, pressing her hand to his cheek, breaking him from his spiral, and it’s like a knot he didn’t know was tied in his chest loosens a bit, and he can breathe easier. “I’m sorry, I- fuck, I said too much, didn’t I? Just forget it, okay, we’ll just make breakfast-”

Charles stops her with a kiss, and when he pulls away, the only word he can muster is a sudden, definite – if breathless – “No.”

The smile is back. “No?”

“No.”

They smile at each other almost shyly. 

Until the smell of fresh-brewed coffee winds its way between them. 

“Coffee?” he asks, and she nods, smiling, though her cheeks are pink.

“Coffee.”

But he can’t resist pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his robe to gently wipe the smear of batter from the tip of her nose. 

“There,” he says softly when he pulls away.

“Um, th-thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He turns away at last to pour the coffee, just as the song changes.

_ “Is this the real life… is this just fantasy?” _

And their eyes meet over the coffee pot, until some of it drips on his thumb, pain instantly flaring up across his skin. “Oh!”

“Chuck!” She’s at his side in an instant, his hand clutched in hers. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he assures her, wiggling his fingers in illustration, trying to ignore the pain. “See? Body is a temple.”

“A desecrated one,” she says, shaking her head as she looks it over. “Oh you poor darling.”

She lets go of him to wet a dish towel with cold water, and then presses it to the burn.

He winces a little, an “ouch” slipping out as she does.

“Sorry!” After a second, she pulls the dishtowel away, examining his hand. “It doesn’t seem so bad, it looks like it barely splashed you. Why the hell would you pour hot coffee on yourself?”

“It wasn’t intentional! I was distracted.”

“Oh?” She looks up, still holding his hand. 

“Well, it seems I recall you telling me, and quite convincingly, that your ringtone for me was _ Bohemian Rhapsody. _Only, as I found out… that was not the case. And I never thought to ask why you’d lied about it.”

“And you’re just remembering it now?” she asks.

He raps on the side of his head. “My memory is still coming back.”

She turns pink. “Hawkeye changed it on me a few months ago, and I just… didn’t see a reason to change it. But it _ was _Bohemian Rhapsody before that, really.”

“Then why did you lie about it?” he asks, and when he sees that she’s frowning, he hurriedly adds, “I’m not upset, I’m simply… curious.”

“Because I- you really need to ask?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’ve been in love with you for- for God knows how long, Chuck, and well, I- I didn’t think it was mutual.”

“So?”

“So it’s pretty fucking obvious I’m ass over teakettle for you if you ask me what your ringtone is and I say _ Good Old-Fashioned fucking Lover Boy!” _

“But it- Donna, it _ was _ mutual…” he trails off. “It _ was. _ God, you didn’t _ know?” _

“No!”

“Donna,” he says, his voice soft. “I love you, and I told you, I’ve loved you long before Pierce’s notion to pair us up was a twinkle in his eye. Do you want me to say it again?”

She shakes her head, but stands on her toes to press a fleeting kiss to his mouth. 

And the kitchen is bright with the smell of coffee and the sound of Queen, and Donna’s smile, and if this feeling isn’t home, then Charles would be hard-pressed to find what is. 

Donna removes the dishtowel from the burn, and lifts his thumb to her mouth, kissing it better, before turning it over and gently pressing a kiss to his lifeline as well, before returning both his hand and the dishtowel. “There.”

“Thank you, Dr. Parker,” he says, tossing the dishtowel over his shoulder as he reaches over to turn on the element. “I suppose if we want pancakes, we should actually make pancakes.”

“Right. Pancakes.” Donna clears her throat, turning away to pour herself coffee, as Charles grabs the frying pan. 

He turns to watch as she mixes her coffee, smiling to herself, and this isn’t the first Sunday they’ve done this, but he can only hope that the last Sunday will never arrive.

“Chuck,” she asks, as she turns, “where’d you put the syrup- what’s wrong?”

She’s backlit by the sun coming in the kitchen window, breathtakingly beautiful in a way that only he gets to see, and it makes his heart _ ache_.

“Nothing,” he manages, his throat tight with emotion. “Nothing at all.”

“The syrup?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Same place it always is. In the pantry, second shelf on the right.”

“Thanks,” she says, and grins, flicking another blueberry at him as she walks past him, shaking her head as she disappears into the pantry.

He drops spoonfuls of batter into the waiting frying pan, chuckling to himself as he does. There’s still an ache in his chest, one that has nothing to do with being shot, and he keeps having to pinch his wrist to ensure this isn’t a dream.

Consequently, there’s a purple bruise on the inside of his wrist.

Donna walks back in. “I found it, no thanks to _ you. _It was on the top shelf, and I almost gave myself a concussion trying to reach it. We’re going to need a stepladder for our pantry, Chuck, not everyone is six-four.”

“Our pantry?” he inquires politely.

“Did… Did I say ours? I… you must’ve misheard.”

“I think I heard exactly what I was supposed to,” he says, smug.

She smiles, her face pink, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist, and he feels her contented sigh as she presses her forehead to his back. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Without question,” he replies, flipping the pancakes over. “I do believe these are ready, my dear.”

“Good,” she says, reaching around him to grab the plates off the counter. “I’m starved. Practically wasting away. And so are you.”

“Mm.” He frowns at himself, but doesn’t say a word, just flips the pancakes onto the plates she set on the counter, before turning the stove off, and handing her one of the plates. “There. Breakfast.”

She smiles, setting the plate down on the island. “They’re beautiful.”

“Well,” Charles says modestly. 

“Though I may need to borrow that frying pan. It would make a great improvised weapon.”

“I… suppose so?”

“Max is still holding all my holsters for ransom,” Donna explains. “I need to restock my arsenal.”

“Breakfast first, _ then _weaponry,” he warns.

“C’mon Chuck,” she says, gesturing. “I gotta get me one of these.”

“Hey. Hey!” He takes off his dishtowel, pointing at her, one hand on his hip. “You heard me, Donna, breakfast first.”

she takes the hint, her expression melting into one of bliss as she tries one.

_ “Fuck, _that’s good.”

“You say that every time.”

“I _ mean _it every time,” she says, and he doesn’t think they’re still talking about the pancakes.

Charles is about to answer, when the song changes again, the bright brassy sound of Ella Fitzgerald echoing through the kitchen. 

_ “Birds do it, bees do it…” _

Their eyes meet.

He can’t resist the smile as he stands, sinking into a perfect curtsy in front of Donna, before holding out a hand. “May I have this dance?”

She stands too from where she’s been leaning against the counter, licking maple syrup off her fingers, and bows in return. “I’d be delighted.”

Unused to doing it to music, their steps are horribly out of sync with the song and yet in sync with each other, both laughing, the kitchen brighter and sunnier for it.

By now, he remembers the steps, his hand steady against the small of her back, their eyes locked on each other, barefoot and laughing as they hop around the kitchen, narrowly avoiding the island and the counters, and he is humming the ländler waltz under his breath.

In their hopping, Charles steps on the fallen blueberry which only makes them laugh harder.

Until they’re spinning.

Her hand is clutched firmly in his as she spins around in a swirl of color, and when he tugs her in close, her expression melts into something softer.

Then their spin slows down, dreamy and gentle, caught in each other’s gravity, the music dying on his lips as they spin. 

He wraps his arms around her, and dips her. She shrieks, clutching at him and laughing, breathless, as he sings to her, _ “They say in Boston, even beans do it…” _

“I love you,” she whispers in between giggles, like she’s never said it before. “I love you, Chuck.”

He has to lean down and kiss her in all her glory. 

He’s still kissing her when the song ends, both of them dizzy and laughing as they sink to the floor, leaning against the island, her hand clutched in his.

They’re quiet for a second as they catch their breath, and then Donna turns to him, catching him watching her. “Chuck, what are you thinking?”

“I love you,” he says softly, and reaches into his pocket, pulling out the box and pressing it into her palm. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

She opens it. “... Oh.”

“It’s not…” he trails off, his voice quiet. “It’s not a grand declaration, I promise. It’s just a key.”

“An apartment key,” she clarifies.

“My apartment key. The spare. Yours. If you want.”

“I do,” she says softly, closing her fingers around it. 

“I-” he starts, struggling to find the right words, and settling on _ I love you, _when the phone rings.

“Shit,” Donna mutters.

He fumbles to answer it, hitting speakerphone as he does. “What?”

“Morning lovebirds!” Pierce’s voice is annoyingly chipper for a Sunday morning.

“How did you know I was here?” Donna asks.

“Because you always are,” Pierce replies. “Guess what they say about women preferring their own bed isn’t true. How are things in your corner of the universe?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“We’re _ good, _Hawkeye. What’s up?”

“Why would something be up? Maybe I’m checking in.”

“You never call to check in before ten,” she reminds him.”

“Fine. Would you two feel up to an all-expenses-paid working stiff’s holiday in Tokyo?”

Their eyes meet. “Tokyo?”

“Yeah. I just got off the phone with a friend of yours, Donna. Museum curator, wants us there ASAP. Some ancient samurai swords have cut and run, and would make bank for black marketeers in the area.”

“Is that all?” Charles asks. “That wasn’t even worth the cost of the long-distance phone call.”

“She said we’d be briefed when we got there... Look, BJ, Donna and I can manage-”

“Fuck no,” Donna cuts him off. “I won't leave Charles behind.”

“But-”

“I’ll hardly lift a finger,” Charles says. “Promise. When do we leave?”

Pierce sighs, defeated. “Tomorrow morning. Don’t make any plans you can’t cancel.”

“Thank you, Pierce,” Charles says, and hangs up, turning to stare at Donna. “Did he just suggest-”

“He more than suggested, darling: we’re going to Tokyo.”

“Tokyo…” he muses. “The Pearl of the Orient.”

“Are you sure you're up to this?” she asks. “Because if you're not-”

“You're needed there,” he points out. “And it's been so long since I've been. Please?”

“Well... you do owe me dinner,” she reminds him.

He leans in and kisses her, soft and slow, giving her a gentle smile when he pulls away. “I hear the cherry blossoms there are lovely this time of year.”

_ ~ fin ~ _

**TO BE CONTINUED…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven months, 4 drafts and 75K later, here we are.  
The end. (For now.)  
thanks to everyone who took time and a chance on this little rarepair of mine, and I hope you enjoyed.  
Thanks especially to my betas, Blue and Day.  
For Blue- thank you for the multiple nitpicky pedantry pants moments and basic logic (like keeping hotel lights on) as well as making sure everyone had all the right limbs. As well, the shouting, and the workshopping, and the snarky editing comments...  
But most of all for this ship. Thank you, you're one of my favourite beans ♥ (love ya)  
And for Day- thank you thank you thank you for the encouragement, the suggested plot points, MORE logic things I missed, and just for the love. I can't thank you enough for helping, and love you lots. ♥  
For Gi, Pat, Lauren and Ari: the art, the comments, the support. you're the best!!  
AND FINALLY (bear with me, almost done here)  
For David, thanks for Charles, and everything else.


End file.
